A poem inspired by a visit to counties in the northwestern part of North Carolina.
Oft, the non beaten road is mis –
pronounced and
interpreted, or
perceived.
Truth is, hearts that wonder,
many who also white knuckle,
the winding slopes of the coolest corner,
carry warmth, but must not be faint.
Here
Long’s frescoes astound,
MerleFest’s vibrations spring,
and the nation’s holiday firs breathe.
Here
The farmer’s till instigates roots,
tough and longevous
despite harvest and winter’s call;
the hue forever green.
Hear
The luthier’s banjo strum
throughout the sun’s departure
swaying blue grass pastures
gently under the moon’s shine.
Hollars like resounding
echoes of resilience throughout
elevated terrain, “closer to God,”
along the gravel path’s melodic crunch;
beautiful as the mountain backdrop.
Through the fog, thick as ash,
exists rolled sleeves and helping hands,
hungry for, like the trout’s river, New;
to clasp tight the virtue of ruggedness, but
to revitalize their dearly beloved:
God’s Country
Mamaw’s comfort
Mountaineers’ home.
