Jae Dyche


Lines Written Outside Front Royal

On the blue side of twilight, an immediate

lucidity reveals the full continua of hillscape

rolling from somewhere northeast

to the other end of creation: on early

nights, gazing out across its expanse,

accompanied by the subtlety of honeysuckle,

I think of Plumly some decades ago,

a county over and parked off one of the meanders

of back highway outside Staunton, tempted

to enter an endlessness of golden delicious

and rafts of high-pasture grass, brief

eases of emptiness, his mind venturing

further to the upper ridges and into the umber

of chestnut and dry oak forest, although

choosing to remain on the roadside in Romantic

admiration of the coming rainfall, auric gray swelling

over the upper ridges—see, in the physics of poetry

the rain simultaneously exists so near

you could gaze at the reflection of a cornflower

on each drop and so distant it’d take a lifetime

of walking to reach them, only to wind up somewhere

between the Virginia state line and eternity.