Rolling Blue Ridge,

Fog clinging around treetops on rainy spring afternoons

In places with names like New Market, Front Royal, Luray.


Early summer and the twilight air is thick

With humidity and honeysuckle.

A little boy loses his ball in the street

But doesn’t run after it because his daddy is there.

And it makes me so grateful,

And it makes me think of Mom,

And I wonder how many times

I’ve navigated this stretch of road

With tear-blurry eyes.


Do they have honeysuckle in Colorado?

‘Cause if they don’t, I’ll sure miss it.





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