(Actual in at entrance of Blowing Rock–great view)
Cliff Dwellers Inn
On the porch, I wiggle my spine
between vertical wooden slats,
seat hard as railroad ties. Bare feet
prop against knotty railings.
The panorama begins:
Right view- Blue Ridge fir tree line . . .
serrated tips pierce navy skies a mile
up the slope. Cauliflower clouds tower
as I strain to view their peeks.
Mid view- dark-gray clouds smudge
pastel blue into graphite.
A faint sun fades.
Left view- black as pitch
fog blunts fir arrows
and torrents pummel
a distant pond—wedding guests
dash toward a huge white tent.
Showers pour sheets from the eaves,
chills my toes. Inhaling deeply,
droplets fill my lungs.
Pounding rain mercifully muffles
pine pollen and DJ music
but typical of mountain rain,
soon ceases. Spires of mist
rise in evergreen depressions.
at pond’s edge and hover
around a lady in fantasia gown
as a fleeing white duck quacks protests
at a white drake paddling fiercely behind.