It Is I


 

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there”,

She used to say,

And I wondered if I would find my way,

Through winding muddy trails

I would go, tripping on rocks,

Sinking in holes, climbing back out

To get there, and one day I found one of my own.

 

But I didn’t cross it;

I went under it.

 

Solid braces reached across a gap,

Wooden beams over a river path,

And the hollow sound of our footsteps

on emptiness, a plank to balance on

with arms stretched out,

Railings daring to reach over,

A place to dangle feet

And tell stories,

And spit,

And sing,

A suspension in space,

A diversion of place

To hide under.

Cool slabs of cement on our backs,

Damp ferns and moss off the beaten path

And roots growing from river banks

A step away from rain drops

And cool mists pattering gently.

 

Gather rubbish and twigs,

Light a fire at night,

huddle in laughter,

gaze in wonderment

warming hands together

in the middle of the night.

 

Trip, trap, trip, trap.

Who dares go under my bridge?

It is I. It is I. It is I.                                                                                April 3, 2015

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Poetry

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© Karen K.L.Espaniola and hinarising.com. 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Karen K.L. Espaniola and hinarising.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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