You twist
the sheets in your hands,
Smiling at
me;
Your voice
is garbled.
Your
daughter says
Dementia,
Congestive
heart failure,
The diseases
slowly taking you.
Then she
tells me your life.
A strong man;
You helped
create the Blue Ridge Parkway,
The
serpentine road carved
Into the
Appalachian Mountains.
The
mountains,
Larger
versions of the creases in your sheets
Where you
are trying to rebuild that road.
And I wonder
if the view you saw,
Many years
ago,
On a crude
road of gravel,
Is the same
as I see today
When I drive
the smooth paved road.
Was the sun
more brilliant
Bouncing off
the mountain faces?
Were the
mountains more blue
In the
fading light
At the end
of a long day?
Can you show
me
What you see
now
From those
many years ago
As you
rebuild the path
Through the
wilderness
In the
sheets surrounding you?
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