we drive the back road
soft gravel cushion
to the Bailey bridge.
naked against belonging
here you
carry me
down stream over rocks
into deep pools of trout.
the world looks so much prettier looking up through the cold rush of water to tree top birch green when out of town we fit better the woods wrapped around us.
the woods quiet sound
of bird and heaven ring
out footfalls animal near
the Bailey butt naked dusk
of surprise pale skin soft
as lean into me the flesh of this earth
you.
soft steps the gravel light
tree top white splash
slash and spring birch green
and formidable pine
at the turn of the road
stops, reminds us
of small
and beauty.
we stand at the Bailey.
Tom- yeah yeah!
ReplyDeleteand so it is that we are revitalized in the presence of pine and bailey. the wind moves the tops of trees. a cricket chirps. a hawk rears up in work and moves its body further up, catches wind, soars. and then and then and then, a tree. always a tree! and we are made, you and I. (Oh, and then there are the naked parts, too. heh heh)
ReplyDeletexo
erin
Erin- these wonderful days rolled up an a little poem cannot come close to what they have been.
ReplyDeleteI like how you've distilled the lines here. Song-like. Cummings-like. :) I've reread it out loud, one too many times now, I reckon; pleasing to the ear, it's such a treat to 'see' (mental voyeurism, no?) and hear.
ReplyDeleteCheers.
S.L Corsua- Thank you. I have read E. E.'s stuff and I have enjoyed very much. Thank you for dropping in and commenting.
ReplyDelete