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.


This poem first appeared in Cacti Fur (April, 2018).
Used here with permission.