"on the Blue Ridge"

The camber of asphalt hugs the shelf,
A calculated arc of steel and oil,
Where modern kineticism asserts itself
Against the compression of ancient soil.
The hollow clamps vision down to stone—
A tight verticality of rock and pine—
Where solitary driver moves alone,
Tracing contours on a drafted line.

Then comes the volta of rising crest:
The mountain breaks its own internal ceiling.
Its infinite ridges, layered north to west,
Expose a grand, architectural dealing.
Its mist is breath suspended in the vault,
A soft geometry that blurs the edge,
Proving the Master’s layout has no fault,
From valley floor up to highest ledge.

We drop gears down into deeper shade,
The engineered compliance of the curve.
An outcast sanctuary, sharply made,
Where only silent chronologies serve.
The road is human wit upon mass,
A temporary seam across slate;
We watch smoke-grey monuments pass,
And drive the boundaries of an older state.

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