Post by roomandboard on Jan 24, 2012 2:20:12 GMT -5
Inside two hundred acres of unused land,
I’ve walked a mile out from the buildings
through rivers of leaves that don’t flow
on a muddy unused path
built for training when this was a military school
and a working farm.
Up to the ford;
the way the stream sings
this morning
I could sleep in the curl
of its voice.
Fresh light bounces on the water
like a million sparkling stars.
A beaver is setting up his spring house
one fallen piece of tree at a time.
He or she is all alone
swimming out to the bank
back to the dam, branch in mouth,
twigs crack as they are pushed together.
Mixing fog sifts through.
Humble rapids
rock over time-rounded stones.
The warmth.
Old water mill with an unmoving wheel.
The door never had a lock.
Upstairs to bowing wooden boards
that shake when I step.
Someone’s set up a mattress with sheets.
Beer cans are crumpled in the corners.
Poems are written on the walls.
I sit down.
Currents of the woods rustling, and soft wind.
The sounds make music.
I have an hour
to breathe and be still.
I’ve walked a mile out from the buildings
through rivers of leaves that don’t flow
on a muddy unused path
built for training when this was a military school
and a working farm.
Up to the ford;
the way the stream sings
this morning
I could sleep in the curl
of its voice.
Fresh light bounces on the water
like a million sparkling stars.
A beaver is setting up his spring house
one fallen piece of tree at a time.
He or she is all alone
swimming out to the bank
back to the dam, branch in mouth,
twigs crack as they are pushed together.
Mixing fog sifts through.
Humble rapids
rock over time-rounded stones.
The warmth.
Old water mill with an unmoving wheel.
The door never had a lock.
Upstairs to bowing wooden boards
that shake when I step.
Someone’s set up a mattress with sheets.
Beer cans are crumpled in the corners.
Poems are written on the walls.
I sit down.
Currents of the woods rustling, and soft wind.
The sounds make music.
I have an hour
to breathe and be still.