Chittenango Falls
1.
Water pours through my soul,
The gates of hell
Closed once more
by the onrush.
Leaves of grass penetrate
into the spaces.
Earth rises up and touches my feet,
grounding me to it.
The corners of time are no more,
smoothed out by the flowing,
gushing, rushing sound.
The crow who lives here asks,
"What is all the fuss about?"
Little knowing his daily gift,
the sound of rushing waters.
2.
Rock walls rise majestically,
created by their very nature
of surrender to the earth's
ever changing give and take.
Outcroppings among trees and
plants reveal the wall of
rock beneath me on which I
sit, opposite to the wall I
see across the gorge.
Green has returned once more
to northern climes.
Thankfully, I stretch to
take it all in,
wishing a greater capacity
for awe.
3.
The side brook
had cut its own path
into the rock bed long ago,
making its own music
beside the loud, rushing stream.
Knowing its music was
but for few to hear did not
trouble it one little bit,
for it understood its own soul
and spoke only to those who
would come close enough
to hear and see.
And its voice was lovely.
4.
The rock ledge invited footsteps.
Irresistible, people climbed the
fence, disregarding signs and rules,
to sit on its platform.
5.
There is an old tree that
stands between the gushing, flowing
streams, (I wish I knew its name)
cut off by natural barriers
and unnatural fences.
Almost like a zoo animal,
it stands, inaccessible to
touch by those who are caught by
its beauty.
Tended by the
gardener of all gardeners,
untouchable except
through heart song.
Sharon
Terry ©2011
