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I took my bike on Amtrak, got off at Charlottesville.
Climbed up to the Blue Ridge parkway, the first of many a hill.
I met a Canadian Carpenter as I got closer to N.C.
He was cycling alone; his wife would meet him in Miami.

We shared some jokes and when food ran low
resupplied at the green valley of Shenandoah. 
The Laurel by the road is pink and white in spring  
But late fall had its charm as well, a bike ride for a king.

The carpenter told me that I biked too long
He was right: I gave out, it was he who was strong.
He kept riding south but not with me.
I turned back just 60 miles from the town of Cherokee.

All I really needed was a day or two to rest
But a foolish reflex made me give up the quest
I had told him I had to get back, which was a lie
He shook my hand; one last wisecrack and we said goodbye.

I got home and there was a letter waiting for me:
the Carpenter praised to the sky the stretch to Cherokee.
Sometimes clear, sometimes fog, on the ridgeline high,  
Blue smoky mists blended mountains with the sky.
The road climbs above 6000 feet, there's red spruce and pine:
He said I had to go someday, the views were so sublime

But there were too few blocks of time when I was free
And for those times, storms raged above the land of the Cherokee.
Then dad got cancer, and mom got cancer too
Brothers sometimes shared the load, but the years still flew.

But I'm hoping that there is an opening yet
that I can reverse this particular regret
I'll tear the veil, warp time's bridge
And make my way to that lost Blue Ridge.
But you never know, you can't open every door
There are portents on every scale, and I'm afraid of what's in store.

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