Driving home from Atlanta
I turn off the radio
and listen to the swooshing
of tires on wet pavement,
the clack, clacking of windshield
wipers in the rain.

Back in the city, trees
still cling to fall foliage,
saffron and crimson.
In the malls, fake trees
brandish colored Christmas lights.
Did I somehow miss Thanksgiving?

Near Blue Ridge, the rain stops.
Mist shrouded mountains host
hardwoods with bare limbs
that rake puffy, blue-grey skies.
Why did I come here to live
the last part of my life?

I cannot bear the confusion
of the city. It is only good
for long weekend visits.
The flatland of my birth
could never satisfy
the cravings of my soul.

I need mountain vistas to smooth
my rumpled mind disturbed by 
too many expected and unexpected
challenges. In the distance
I see Tusquittee Range. I'll
be home before darkness closes in.

© by Glenda Beall..
Used with the author's permission.