Jones Gap Good

The land of paths interwine Curving around a bent fork's tine Run  Interstates straight as  a spine While backroads weave in and out of the pines Through God's country rolls highway number nine Snaking the mountain like a kuduz vine And in between those lines Wraps the air that feels  greater than fine A perfect blend of salt to sugar brine Fried chicken and watermelon red ripe to the rind Atop granny's quilt bare feet dine Skin warmed by the slant of sunshine The quintessential southern combine Rare is this kind of divine A wholly sky with stars align Unnecessary is any type of redesign All the water has turned to wine Anything and everything one can opine Without fear of being judged asinine A saturated love  breaking what confines