Capturing a misty Blue Ridge morning,
we scuttled uphill, down dale, taking up trails,
traipsing through dew-covered fields,
and slipped off, passing untamed hours of existence.
We rested near calm lakes
roused by walleye’s sporadic splash,
or bluegill’s breath bubbles or striders atop the water
or dew-dripped sprinkles pit-patting a cappella.
We walked by wild honeysuckle’s sweet, fragrant flowers
or white pine’s fresh-scented resin,
and trod upon the old dirt
thoroughfares unearthed by agrarian ancestors;
passed underneath tree-covered darkness
into the cool backwoods blessed with clear,
trickling creeks and streams so pure
we cupped our hands to sip and swig;
meandered through hollers among the oddly hospitable
who fed us what they had
before they teetered atop narrow bridges
and hung so tight to lottery miracles, the wind turned back.
We journeyed home, our brains self-storages
of nature’s brilliance and begged for more untamed hours
for just some eek of Mother Nature’s radiance,
to tide us all over into days.
Featured Image of Old Black Appalachian Trail by Brian Stansberry – Wikimedia