I emerged from the Mount Rogers region into the broadest valley the trail has thus far crossed, for the first time descending from to farm and plain. This final descent wiggled through a lovely tunnel of rhododendron alongside a tumbling creek, a particularly Virginian feeling.
A different creek on the eastern drainage of today’s ridge was a tributary of the New River, a quite contrarily named river, as geologists consider it the world’s second oldest river valley (after the Nile). Therefore, today’s poem, the final one of this Grayson Highlands series, shares a similarly contrarian title. On a day characterized by descent from the highlands (along with unexpected sustained rain and my inability to wear clothing that did not result in either excess heat or chilliness), my poem is titled Going Up.
The premise is that capitalism is ostensibly a system to allocate finite, limited resources. Yet defining these limits is hard. And we run into a dilemma: up and to the right, economically speaking, is a good thing but inherently cannot sustain itself forever. What then is the alternative?
Stylistically, this poem is far superior to the two previous. I attentively focused on meter, iamb, rhyme, and such. In the process of writing, I decided I enjoy this deliberately structured form of poetry. It’s more of a puzzle, like a riddle to solve, a challenge of expression.
An unusual camp site
I am camped in an old school house, built in 1894. The rain fell heavy and warm outside, but the dry wooden boards inside are a nice place to sleep. What a unique place to spend a night. The old wooden structure creaks loudly in the storm, but at least this covers up the quieter voices of 19th century childrens’ ghosts?
