Listen to this poem using the player above.
I wrote this poem today while sitting on a rock along the Housatonic River in Connecticut. The photo below, linked from this site, is of the exact spot where this poem was written. That seems like a remarkable stroke of luck, but actually this spot is one of few along this part of the Housatonic with easy access from Route 7. You can click the photo to see a larger version.
Housatonic Reverie
This is my river, the Housatonic.
This water flows through my land.
I learned to walk near its banks,
Played on a street that bore its name.
I had to turn around and come back to find it –
give up the illusion of forward motion –
to sit on this rock and hear the water’s voice
singing a long-lost lullaby.
Tadpoles swim in a pool sheltered by stones.
They, too, will learn to walk
along the banks of the Housatonic.
Those, that is, who survive
the difficult road to maturity,
a road whose casualties
line the shoulder
like so many car-struck deer.
I put out my right foot to steady myself,
place it on a rock that wobbles;
a handy metaphor to remind me of the
uncertainty of even the most solid objects.
Down the river a ways, a hawk makes silent circles.
The occasional car covers up the water’s voice,
but its song always returns, summoning me
home to my river, my land, my life.
I love this. I can picture you sitting there. I’m glad you had the chance to do that, particularly yesterday. I love you.
yes. those wobbly rocks. and who gave them permission to be so wobbly. rocks are expected to be solid and firm and hold fast.
sheesh. glad people aren’t expected to be like rocks. people are expected to be wobbly.
oops. i’m not talking about the poem anymore.
i like the wobbly rock metaphor in your poem. and that your narrator connects with it. 🙂
@Mom: Thanks. I was very happy to have the chance, too.
@Carolee: Thanks very much. As the Poet Laureate of the Weebles, I hereby wobble. And, as it turns out, fall down.