Bridges

Not my favorite poem--it was the first I came up with in my poetry class and it's obvious if you read my other works. I edited it a bit, though, and I think it's a little better. Enjoy!

 

 

 

 

 

Bridges

 

I enter the woods,

Melodic in its tranquil silence.

Twigs crackle lightly beneath my boots,

The bark of the trees course, earthy beneath my fingers.

Green and yellow dappled light blend harmoniously

With the soft flowing music of the air

And the sweet, cinnamon smell of fallen leaves—

A symphony for the senses.

 

I stumble upon a fallen bridge,

Dark with decay, dank with rainwater,

Clinging to the side of a deep ravine.

I imagine the people who traversed its planked course,

Transporting me to a time of braying beagles and men with tea cozies,

Guns slung over their backs in pursuit of an evening meal.

The scene, melancholic in sepia tones of old, flickers and fades

As the reel cuts short and I am back where I began,

Gazing at the ruined remains my imagination would make grand again.

 

I carry on, past the bridge and through the woods.

I mark an interesting rock or a leaning tree,

Breadcrumbs for my way back home.

I do not have a destination in mind,

But the sight before me tells me I have reached it.

A tree once majestically tall creates a bridge over the stream to my left.

The dappled light and singing air reach a crescendo,

Beautiful in its hushed chorus.

I have found my sanctuary, my place of thought and perspective,

One which Thoreau would have envied.

 

-Aaron Stewart