How rapidly the Blue Ridge disappears— and soon we’ll be flying through a cloud interior: we’re flying in the cloud, I remember she’d say, as the plane then entered what nothingness would look like if it ever had a look. That shredding of color… long before the cloud became technology. But now I’ll have to leave these low blue mountains, the ones that are never ostentatiously sublime—just inward shapes that soothe the peopled earth: the farmhouses and trees I’ll also lose to our ascension, before I’ve lost that last ocean-ridge above the grass, the one that won’t be asking anything for itself. It offers a translucency, always nearly mirroring the lower land it also seems to shelter. Like a gifted listener…. I guess it’s still too easy to ascribe such integrity to landscape. Will we never learn? But there’s also some truth in it, you have to admit. And look how quickly, as if in self- chastening, that listening must fade.
Christina Pugh is the author of four books of poems, including Perception (Four Way Books, 2017). She was a Guggenheim fellow in poetry for 2015-2016, and is a professor in the Program for Writers at the University of Illinois at Chicago. She is also the consulting editor for Poetry.
Header photo of clouds above Blue Ridge Mountains by StockSnap, courtesy Pixabay. Photo of Christina Pugh courtesy the Bogliasco Foundation.