Traditions of the Blue Ridge past;

Inheritance, a gift to last.

But youth and haste will often bring

An end to life’s most precious thing.

Adventure called from miles away,

And tore my roots from sacred clay.

My mountain past I nurtured not;

My mountain home I soon forgot.

Career and time, each took their toll.

I lost the breeze that cooled my soul.

Adventure? Not what I supposed.

And looking back, the door is closed.

The chasm’s deep ‘twixt then and now –

For me to cross, I know not how.

Oh, that I might build a bridge

To take me home to sweet Blue Ridge.

So learn from this, my simple rhyme,

That you may see the truth in time.

For now that life is done, it seems

I’ll go there only in my dreams.