On the Outskirts of the Blue Ridge

a poem about an afternoon drive through the beautiful foothills of the N.C. mountains

Hilltop mobile homes
parked in rows with
weary cars and tufts
of unruly grass.
They are weathered,
as am I.
Collections of scrap-metal,
small gardens boasting
late tomatoes, plump
red flashes on the vine.
Corn fields in thick
mounds that hug the earth.
Bovine fields gathered in fences.

Each blind bend in the road
is a new thing of some old things
to see, to let my eyes and soul
linger there in possibility.
Wouldn’t it be nice to
live here in this quiet
gathering of apple orchards
and tender rolling hills
that reach here and there
to the sky?—the way that mountains do.

The clouds move in thick
syrupy drifts over the peaks
rolling carelessly down each
curve, making a tender crawl
to the valleys before the trees
swallow their mists. Everything
moves slower here.

Christmas tree farms dot the steep
embankments, sloping up toward sky.
A mountain stream appears
and winds the same path as we—
it moves silently, adrift a stony path
alongside the road, carrying
inner-tubers, canoeists, brightly-colored
Saturday fun in the cool waters
of Blue Ridge. Everything
moves slower here, as do we.