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Roads
By Byron Herbert Reece

A pace or two beyond my door
Are highways racing east and west,
I hear their busy traffic roar,
Fleet tourists bound on far behests
And monstrous mastodons of freight
Passing in droves before my gate.
The roads would tow me far away
To cities whose extended pull
They have no choice but to convey;
I name them great and wonderful
And marvels of device and speed,
But all unsuited to my need.

My heart is native to the sky
Where hills that are its only wall
Stand up to judge its boundaries by;
But where from roofs of iron fall
Sheer perpendiculars of steel
On streets that bruise the country heel
My heart's contracted to a stone.

Therefore whatever roads repair
To cities on the plain, my own
Lead upward to the peaks; and there
I feel, pushing my ribs apart
The wide sky entering my heart.

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My friend Richard Whisnant from the
University of North Carolina at Chapel
Hill passed along this wonderful poem.
Thanks Richard.

Learn more about the poet here.