Country roads take you far away
off of the well worn, beaten track
up into the simple places, the forgotten mountains,
the mountain farms in the middle of nowhere.
Out here, long stretches of untrekked woods
brushed with the wild honey, amber and burgundy
distilled out of clean air, earth and water
seem broken only by ragged cornfields,
open pastures, Christmas tree farms
set out in parcels hedged with split rail fences
from a by-gone era. Lonely farmhouses and old barns
clear your head and slow you down
into the trails of horses and buggies.
A roadside stand of pumpkins,
gingergold apples and jars of blackberry jam
begs you to stop and savor the moment:
wine colored leaves and the smell of pine,
echoes of blue jays playing in the groves,
the mysterious summits of the mountains
rising like altars around you;
the gleam of a waterfall
across fields of trifoil and rhododendron.
Unbridled horses celebrating up on the pasture beyond
complete an old, haunting spell cast
last century. You no longer even want to remember
who you were before you came out here,
or the way back out of this place.