Page 68 - Contrast1988Spring

Seasons Of My Place

I remember my place;
A large, flat, pitted, rock
In the middle of the country
(Really a mountain stream)
At the end of our road.
The creek passed under
A nineteeneth-century oak and iron bridge.
My rock was visible from that bridge;
People knew it was there;
And, if I sat on it,
They could see.me and I them,
Especially when they drove their cars
Over the rusting and creaking bridge.
But it did not matter,
For I was always alone
At my place.

I could escape there.
I would jump on my motorcycle
And scream down to the creek
In a fit of adolescent anger.
I would scramble across the rocky streambed,
Splash through icy water,
Reach the rock,

And embrace its cold, unfeeling surface.

In the Spring

I would watch the squirrels and chipmunks
Chase splashes of light
Over the forest floor rich with loam.
The sun would peek through
The deep green of the forest canopy
To warm my face with its evasive beams.
The birds would fill the sky with their brilliant songs
Of morning and evening.
Tiny winds would whip past the tree trunks
To cool the heat of my heart.

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Contrast Spring 1988