The Blue Ridge Parkway by Danny P. Barbare

Looking at the jewelry, bracelets, earrings,

and necklaces, books

about leaves. Clothes, wooden

canes, wind chimes

like dulcimers, angels, colorful rocks,

pictures of smoky blue lands and

paintings, calendars and postcards,

and maps, I look out the window at The

Blue Ridge like an ocean of mountains.

And buy a book to learn autumn’s

colors, as we leave Pisgah Inn not to

return before April, when winter comes

and the gates to the parkway are closed

for those cold snowy days. The sunset

glows in the trees and the tunnels howl

as Biltmore sits nestled in the valley

of Asheville and the leaves

swirl behind the car

as The French Broad flows in cool shade.


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