Her limestone bones
hold up the Appalachians.
Her curves are sexy hollers,
knobs and hills.
Every day she dresses
in Derby finery,
as blue-green as her grass,
hat tipped coyly
over one eye.
Not all her secrets uncovered yet.
Bourbon ferments in her veins
while Thoroughbred foals gambol
at her feet, dreaming of races
and wreaths of roses.
A graceful Southern lady,
crumbling stone fences
girding her spine.

-Beatrice Underwood-Sweet