My new wife and I are separated
by four hundred miles, several rivers,
and uncountable ridges, rises, hills,
mountains, all slowly declining
in their broccoli-topped beauty.
For three months and eleven days our marriage
has been one of driving through
the fog-filled valley of the Ohio and the lumbering
Blue Ridge. I flipped my car one night,
asleep at the wheel outside Ronceverte.
Separation nearly killed me. Four more months
and my growing familiarity with central
West Virginia radio stations will come to an end.
Distance is best measured in mountain
peaks and bridges. I’ll see her again in forty-three
barges and a few more inches of moon.
by four hundred miles, several rivers,
and uncountable ridges, rises, hills,
mountains, all slowly declining
in their broccoli-topped beauty.
For three months and eleven days our marriage
has been one of driving through
the fog-filled valley of the Ohio and the lumbering
Blue Ridge. I flipped my car one night,
asleep at the wheel outside Ronceverte.
Separation nearly killed me. Four more months
and my growing familiarity with central
West Virginia radio stations will come to an end.
Distance is best measured in mountain
peaks and bridges. I’ll see her again in forty-three
barges and a few more inches of moon.