Author: Alyce Faye Bragg

WHEN THE SONG OF THE ANGELS IS STILLEDBy Howard Thurman When the song of the angels is stilled,When the star

How in the world did I ever get in this shape? I was going along comfortably in my holler home

November has left us, but in a last good will gesture she is sending a few warm days to welcome

The leaves have fallen off the mulberry tree; one by one they drifted down to cover the ground with their

GOD’S WORLDO world, I cannot hold thee close enough!Thy winds, thy wide gray skies!Thy mists, that roll and rise!Thy woods,

“Fog on the hill brings water to the mill”– a favorite saying of my mother’s that has proved true many

“The charm of the goldenrod” is spreading across our hills, reflecting the rays of the early autumn sun and enticing

It was a splendid pre-fall day when my sister Jeannie and I journeyed to Ravenswood to meet our other two

August rushes by like a desert rainfall.A flood of frenzied upheaval,Expected,But still catching me unprepared.Like a matchflameBursting on the scene,Heat

A yellow swallowtail butterfly perches on the top of the pink Rose of Sharon bush and sways with the wayward

We awakened to the soft pattering of rain on the roof, a most welcome sound after the violent thunderstorms and

Most of us agree that it is more fun to read about “the good old days” than to actually relive

This is a glorious morning. I feel sorry for folks who sleep late and miss the beauty of the day

They came to the hills of West Virginia with enthusiasm and high hopes. He was coming back to his roots,

The waters of William’s River still run swift and cold. It swirls around huge boulders, cresting white and foaming, as

The nostalgic fragrance of lilacs drifts through the house, as the last sprays are salvaged and placed in a vase

The voice of spring has awakened our hills after the deep sleep of winter. She whispered first to the songbirds,

March, with her changeable moods and capricious ways, exits our hills today, making way for dainty April and the fullness

There’s a month in each year,That always seems drearFor thirty-one days or so,But look at it rightAnd all will seem

HYMNS OF SPRINGBy Betty J. BanksSkeletons of winter,Their blood pooledIn their feet,Their bony armsRaised to the sky.Pray for resurrection.Sol’s breath

THE DIFFERENCE I got up early one morningAnd rushed right into the day,I had so much to accomplishThat I didn’t

February has always seemed like a dreary month to me. Not quite winter and not yet spring, it stretches between

The tantalizing fragrance of sassafras tea floats through the house today, while the dark, robust tea bubbles on the stove.

The days are growing shorter, and the fields are growing browner as late fall makes its way through our hills.

“Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands. Serve the Lord with gladness; come before His presence with

Dear Lord:Thanksgiving Day is almost here, and I’ve been thinking of your many blessings. It’s just not on this day

SOMETHING TOLDTHE WILD GEESE By Rachel Lyman FieldSomething told the wild geeseIt was time to go;Though the fields lay goldenSomething

Our Heavenly Father has poured molten gold upon our hills, while here and there a maple stands out in scarlet

Summer: I heard the katydids tolling your death knell last night. In fact, the lonely haunting dirge has sounded out