I come to the hidden waterfall to which I promised to return
To write a poem.
I passed people who shifted their eyes; unwilling to understand.
But here is a dark green smell that is fresh yet ancient.
Here are flowers like jewels and late-summer berries not even the birds have found.
Here a few fallen leaves are noticed after all.
Here moss fills in the layers of rock that are so carefully sculpted by the water that does not ever stop arriving and does not ever stop
Falling down the fall.
I try to choose a place to sit, not knowing if anyone will sit there again
When I see a perfectly crooked line of stones upon the water,
Waiting for someone to cross.
Not to disappoint them, I hop from stone to stone, feeling a spark
That makes gold melt across my shoulders and down my arms.
I wander on, my mind unfolding, and around the corner I see
An open river, free and wild and grand.
In the water are minnows, twigs never remembered enough to be forgotten,
And a handmade stack of stones, standing alone.
I turn and descend
Back down the fall.
I wonder who he is, this Placer of Stones.
If he came here, too, waiting for adventure to find him.
If he hoped somebody would discover his pile of rocks,
Simply to be thought of.
If he wanted to lay down and close his eyes and let the water dissolve him.
If he was just as lonely as me.
I feel the layers of stone in my lungs, the moss on my skin,
The flowers in my heart, and the water in my eyes
As they add another drop to the pool of endless drops.
And I watch as it, too,
Falls down the fall.
