fountainhead journey

it’s been a year since
I walked this way
reading textural changes
the trees thicker
groundcover deeper
a pond so untroubled
even ripples don’t disturb it
a cormorant swam close by
and dived into the murky water
I sat upon a root-terraced bank
two red-wing blackbirds
chirped overhead then flew away
in opposite directions
and I wanted to cry
but couldn’t

thinking about what I’d lost
and what I’d gained
I scraped an overlay of leaves
into a simple oval
rimmed it with broken twigs
and spanish moss
inside I placed a rotted stick
a smooth white stone
a stem of dried green leaves
and made primordial art
enduring and transient
I still couldn’t cry
though the tears
were gathering

I left my token to be trampled on
by fishermen and drunks
who stagger down
with their twelve packs
to decorate the shore
with aluminum cans
brown glass and
blue and white cardboard
I stayed close to the trees
to avoid the flagrant sun
bearing down on the clearing
the oaks offered their tender growth
into my cupped hands
to be watered

by the tennis courts
I saw the grandfather of them all
bearded arms stretching
to the turquoise sky
girth too wide to reach around
roots clasping the primitive stones
and thought I might just sit there
like Gautama


© 2002 Melissa Songer