One day I walked along the Hudson
River, silent in a scream until the paths
turned to trees and the George
Washington Bridge was just a memory
in someone else’s veins.
Along this path, the dirt turned soft,
the trees grew all around, encumbering
the sunlight gleam. The leaves were brown
and moist with dew from a rain
that fell the whole night through.
As I treaded over the gentle steam
of autumn leaves that softened the
ground, my feet tingled in sensation,
the strain of wanting to be free, so
I took off my shoes.
My soles sank ever deeper into malleable
ground, the tea-colored leaves resting
about them like a blanket, but I
kept on stepping toward a strange and
unknown destination.
Somewhere north of Nyack but south
of Haverstraw, quite surrounded by
the stream of civilization, and yet
apart, my bare foot encountered a stone
amid the tame and fallen leaves.
Curious, not having seen a stone
for miles, or perhaps just not looking
for one, I picked it up for examination.
There was an inscription of some
kind, but exactly what, I cannot say.
I traced it with my fingers,
along the dirt-filled grooves, and
felt some kind of energy entering
my body through the tip of my index
finger, gathering in my chest.
It shot up my spinal seam, through the cortex
of my brain, until it reached my vision. The
theme of I saw I cannot quite recall, and even
if I could, I’m not sure I could explain, but
somehow the feeling remained.
It left me with a question. We imagine
unreal worlds and spirits visit us
without exception in our dreams.
There is such a thing as “reality” but why
do we live so much in “seem?”
Note: Written to dVersePoet's 6/7/12 prompt "Where in the World?," graciously hosted by Charles Miller.
Year:
2012
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