Sunday, September 30, 2018

Poem of Weekend

Chagrin Falls

We visit the falls after picking our apples.
Sunny chilled day just on the edge of autumn.
The viewing deck at the bottom is packed with people:
Families and couples taking photos,
Children scrambling from stone to stone,
Some venturing onto thick fallen logs
That jut into the receiving pool.
The water thunders over the edge and
Splays in intricate patterns like lace
But my focus is on the stone face
Behind the meshed sheets of water.
Darkened damp rock, tufts of moss and grass
Sprouting from crevices and narrow ledges

There’s where I would go.
Hidden by transient cloaks of lucidity---
Not invisible, more unseen.
The roar and pomp of a thunder
That’s never really there.
It’s all just a swiftly moving pretension.
I am like anyone who hides;
Patiently hoping to be found
By the one who knows how to pay attention.


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