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camera stands collapse.
marigold, mum and lavender thistle
feud against sunflower twinned to volunteer bamboo.
iris compete into a sky freed blue mountain to field for bees.
wild grape fence cloud peonies lush to midsummer sun.
crocus peek through frost to introduce anemones scattered in stone.
rains whiplash grasses whisked from alkaline berths strafed in shelves to the beach.
butterflies reach for roads on the breeze.
charlene pleads for ease in waters rushing toward a conclusion of crowds crashing onto plates of Africa with time's acordian of gauzy murmuring.
beetles are crawling climes wound undone to her toes quivering into the fallen slush of home frozen for alien queries.
Let the flowers call out their numbers alone.
honeysuckle plush on orphaned wire twines on faded lines past for a child waving across the tell of years for a clear sound.
"The Appalachian Region's economy, once highly dependent on mining, forestry, agriculture, chemical industries, and heavy industry, has become more diversified in recent times, and now includes manufacturing and professional service industries. Appalachia has come a long way in the past four decades: its poverty rate, 33 percent in 1965, was 18 percent in 2008. The number of high-poverty counties in the Region (those with poverty rates more than 1.5 times the U.S. average) declined from 295 in 1965 to 116 in 2000.
"But despite progress, Appalachia still does not enjoy the same economic vitality as the rest of the nation. Central Appalachia in particular still battles economic distress, with concentrated areas of high poverty, unemployment, poor health, and severe educational disparities. And recent economic data show that the Region has fared far worse in the current recession than the rest of the nation." -- ARC
"To each man a song, born into his blood and vision -- the working force, the fire of spirit. To each his gift, the song that he is committed to sing in his time on earth. Yet a man must hear it forming and feel the composition of it along the strings of his soul. In the quiet and secret places of his heart the music waits. Voices he does not know sing it to him when he does not watch, and those bells that rang in other lands, in other times, ring yet to reach each soul.
"But he must take along his soul into the riven, quarrelsome streets and into the furious arenas where he meets with life. And there is no place to hide.
"And music, so gossamer and tender, born of innocence and frail substance, is thrust into the forge and laid upon the anvil, and struck there with hammers and beaten upon from divers directions.
"If he cannot protect his song and slip away from the destruction of his soul, if he cannot hide from the clamor and the weight and the heat, then he is lost.
"If the calloused hand of circumstance reaches inside him and scrambles the notes, scattering them to the lost reaches of his soul as the planets are flung through the heavens, then he is doomed and lost.
"And if the searing finger of despair reaches in to cauterize, to seal up his soul, and the cold wash of fear descends upon him and his metal has no temper, then he will not live.
"For of what use is life if a man cannot find the lost knowledge of himself, or put together again a song that has been broken and scattered, or restore his soul?" -- The Song of Samuel, And Scatter the Proud by (now-deceased Asheville NC reporter/novelist and ACR friend) Lewis W. Green