Poetry

‘Lye Brook Falls, Vermont’ and other poems by Hope Andersen

By: Hope Anderson

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Lye Brook Falls, Vermont

You have to walk a rocky path,
careful not to twist an ankle
or stumble and fall,
the stones tripping you up
like character flaws
reminding you to be patient,
careful, mindful.

Your legs will burn,
your thighs will be on fire
as your heart throbs inside your chest
like a grandfather clock,
every beat felt resonating
through your body
to your brain.

You will bump your head
on the low branches
and fallen trees that arch
over the path,
cursing.
You will traverse streams
over slippery stones
telling yourself you’ll fall
don’t fall
you’ve got this
as your sneakers get soggy
and your toes are mush.
Your throat will be parched.
Your spirits will lag.

The path
both beautiful and endless
will beckon you.
Sprays of feathered ferns
and soft emerald moss,
gurgling brooks and mushrooms
popping up from the
loamy forest floor –
trios of tiny mustard colored parasols,
shelves of honey caps lining rotting trunks,
filmy white pipes,
huge prehistoric platters
will catch your eye as you trudge,
swatting mosquitoes
still wondering why you came.

Then the air will grow thin.
You will push through blackberry bushes, excited
Suddenly, you are there.

A vertical river of white
pouring out of the sky.
Heaven slides down
through the trees
like a frothy bridal train.
The water thunders, whispers.
Don’t look for rainbows.
There are none.
Only the magnificent falls
dappled with sunlight
toppling through this
sea of green.

###

Island Meditation

An egret cuts a crisp white question
mark in the dark marsh mud.

Oysters tick and pop like bushmen
their shells rough hoodoos.

Tiny pearl snails cling to
slender blades of marsh grass;
above them, marlins whirl,
wheeling, bursting like sparks.

Water flows out and in
breathing new secrets:

an orange otter slinks through the water
and up onto the muddy bank;

a filmy pink ray sways
on invisible currents, gracefully.

Six loons dive for fish
and fly away,
leaving the egrets behind.

###

Blind Sight

The rock beneath my thigh is cold.
The wind lifts up from the valley
ribbons the pine trees
loosing a holiday scent.
Nearby the stream gurgles over rocks
and a waterfall pounds water down
crashing, splashing.
Is this what it is like to be blind?
To hear every movement, only larger –
ants scratching in the sand,
rhododendron buds swelling,
sunshine dripping through the clouds
like honey
I hear it in my heart.

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Categories: Poetry

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