Conifer Roots

Conifer roots in the mountain stone,
Homestead fields where my blood was sown.
Grandma’s hands and grandpa’s plow,
Sky so wide, I still feel it now.
Last Fields baby on that hill,
Breathing in a world that’s wild and still.

Twelve small hearts she tried to raise,
Ten grew up through dusty days.
Milliken fields and Johnstown nights,
Barn cat eyes and porch light stripes.
Every story that my daddy told
Smelled like pine sap, felt like gold.

Conifer roots, running deep in my veins,
Pine tree prayers in the summer rain.
I am the daughter of high-country truth,
Grew from the ground of my Conifer youth.
Wherever I go, whatever I do,
Those mountain roots keep pulling me through.

You can take the girl to the flatland shore,
But you can’t shake loose what came before.
Every time I close my eyes,
I’m back beneath those western skies.

Conifer roots, steady and strong,
Whisper, “Child, this is where you belong.”
Even in the city, under neon hues,
I walk the world in Conifer shoes.

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