Monday, April 20, 2015

Poetry: Hiking Crescent Lake

Alright today we were instructed to write a poem about things we 'know.' You can view the full prompt here. I had a lot of fun with this one. I went hiking yesterday with my husband at Crescent Lake with my brand new hiking shoes and alas they do not look new anymore...

Hiking Crescent Lake
By Brittany M.

I know I like
To live dangerous.
I like to wallow in stubborn,
Listening to the discontent
Of a shoe stuck in mud
And the slunk of suction
And bubble of release.
Mud sounds appropriate
Only in intimate settings, in
A bedroom with red
Satin sheets. Not in
Forest woods with
Narrow trails lined
With wild rose thorns.
I know step to step
From stone to root
To fallen branch,
All precarious,
One foot raised up
To test my balance
Arms out like a bird
Willing wind to come.
I know frosts had
Bleached the birch leaves
To a pale water yellow
And sapped them into
Dried husks like
Sheets of curled skin.

I know they rustled
In the wind like a
Man turning the page
Of a newspaper a
Thousand times a minute,
The forest loud with
Swish and swash
Of leaves’ applause
As they cheered
My grand entrance
Through flats of mud.
I know they cheered
Louder still when,
Through forest dun,
Past winter monotones,
I spotted pink and black
Polka dot rain boots
On a woman with
A white but muddy dog.

I know she was well equipped,
Even if I chose
The proper footwear,
But in the April thaw,
In between winter and spring,
My hiking shoes could not
Conquer the uncertainty
Of mud covered deceit
By old shattered leaves.

I know in the midst
Of bleeding fingers
From thorny bush,
While the clouded sun
Dyed the lake a scale silver,
I smelled full spring

Among the sweet dried leaves
A mixture of new iris rain
And the old decay of autumn
But no matter, for the smell
Did not reflect upon reality.

I know my wet socks
Did not bother me
So much, but rather
Ignored the betweeness.
I felt instead wedged
Among a precipice
Balancing on the edge
Of seasons, and in hope,

I know I chose these shoes
Intent for a transition,
Hoping for sun to dry
The ground normal again.
No more the branching
Of frost to burn
Soil into rock
And then to thaw
The next day,
Turning land into
Something not land,
Altering water into
Something not water,
But something in between.

But I know,
I did not get my way.

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