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You are not my new home yet,
Though you have always been
And will always be.
You are my mountain magnet;
I am drawn to you even as I
Sit by the ocean’s edge.
You are constantly in my
Horizon; your ridges and rocks
Beyond reach of me now.
You are all the colors of my
Palette, sometimes a profusion
Of many, or a study in gray.
You are the four phases of my
internal clock; you greet
Each season with new vigor.
You are the frozen winter,
A short day, a long night,
A time to rest and repair.
You are the lacy, fragile spring,
Not sure you’re ready to come out,
Hesitating, then bursting anew.
You are the somnolent summer dressed
In green for the red, white, and blue parade.
You have been here so long.
You are the fiery fall, where I
Will spend the autumn of my years.
I know you’ll be there, Blue Ridge.
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