At the Falls
Above the current
fed by summer storms
the ledge and boulders
are lush in miniature:
as ribbons of weed
shimmy, submerged,
out from the stone
bursts a trumpet of lichen.
Translucent ferns
bruise beneath our feet.
•
This heart-shaped leaf
I almost recognize, stepping clear:
green against black earth
it flares like light.
•
I could come back with guidebooks,
my focus best at close range--
and trace for days, for weeks,
the names that grow here,
private--wordless among themselves--
the water so loud we're forced to shout.
Above the current
fed by summer storms
the ledge and boulders
are lush in miniature:
as ribbons of weed
shimmy, submerged,
out from the stone
bursts a trumpet of lichen.
Translucent ferns
bruise beneath our feet.
•
This heart-shaped leaf
I almost recognize, stepping clear:
green against black earth
it flares like light.
•
I could come back with guidebooks,
my focus best at close range--
and trace for days, for weeks,
the names that grow here,
private--wordless among themselves--
the water so loud we're forced to shout.
(From Season We Can't
Resist, WordTech Editions,
2007; first published in New England
Review;
published online on
the New Hampshire Poet
Showcase and Verse Daily.)