 |
|
|
Sanctuary Lake- A Poetic Journey
SANCTUARY LAKE
Tonight we walk
through another grove of entangled limbs and braided shadows
the green fainting beneath an inky squid sky
gazing back at us through narrowed, crescent squint
I hold your hand as we speak of former partners
in that utter past tense that only fresh love can imitate
And just as we agree that
between us we have found a better moment
the path breaks open like a fast lily
and we stand before an unforeseen body of water
looking so much like heaven
that surely the angels must vacation here
tossing their harps and sandals on the shore
(like so much spare and broken granite)
to sail to the center in algae skiffs
and drop a line into this tiny magic sea
to fish for compliments (or anything that comes to mind)
We skirt the east bank and find the path that pierces this lake
climb the edgy peninsular cliff to stand
hands-on-hips and gaze with ancient eyes at water on three sides
Queen and King of this green instance
Against my nature I try to remain silent to better watch
your eyes scour the water line
with each bullfrog's groggy complaint
the tree line in response to a cardinal's looping melody
and see for the first time how much I have come to depend
upon being with you in the woods
Humbled by my realized need, I walk behind you
as we leave the peninsula and follow a larger path
into deeper mystery
lake on the right reflecting the trees on the left in the salt and pepper light
We come to a section of intermittent wall
small shale slabs built up into stalagmite crowns
white concrete holding slender gray spires
around a small overgrown garden
which has become home to some immigrant god of India
joined the witness protection program
and residing in this spare glade of nowhere
arms upraised, laughing,
sitting on a keg of some ancient, indeterminate nectar
Stunned into still deeper silence,
we hold hands, pass more rock sentries
stony fingers raised in eighteenth century prayer
and follow the narrow path to John Burroughs' Spring
Just inside the gate
we are greeted by nine p.m.'s filtered dusky green
a dowager's veil sprinkled with firefly diamonds
that flicker laughing lights at our approach
and I understand that this is the church I have searched for
a proper place to marry the woman
who speaks with such specific silence
that I can almost translate her sighs
(though still not into words)
I wrap my arms around your neck from behind
"When you know that you want me, ask and I will say yes,"
I whisper into your ear
You lean back against me, a subtle pressure
"Can you do that?" I say, knowing your shy manner
You nod.
"Yes," you whisper back
We continue on, hand-in-hand toward the Celery swamp
with its three acres of black soil
where Burroughs planted his vegetable garden
Then continue our climb
toward the fine-grained sandstone rock formation
(which started 600-million years ago
from the mud on the bottom of an inland sea)
and find a boulder covered with lichen
which the guide sheet says
are the pioneer plants that prepare the way
for mosses, ferns, flowers and trees to gain a root-hold
I think of your rocky stare whenever ancient lovers have called
to leave messages on your answering machine
oblivious to your disdain for their loud, littering lives
Or the way you seem to grow into me as we lay on the sofa
watching our favorite old tearjerkers
so close I'm never sure where I stop and you begin
(at least until the movie ends and you rise,
help me prepare my night-nest on the sofa
kiss me sweet sleep and retire to your own chamber of dreams)
For the time being this walking through the green
is our only sex
the passing of miraculous landscape through our eyes
a natural foreplay, followed by succulent, hand-prepared meals
and the kiss of sweet, classic music in our ears:
All of which allows us to reach a gentle,
mutual climax at the end of each day
Before us, the open swamp area supposedly provides a home
for ferns, jewelweed, cardinal flowers, cattails and horsetails
Jack-in-the-pulpit, star flower, and trillium
while tanagers, robins, and song sparrows
choir through the glade, heralding our approach
Were this not a nature preserve I might be tempted
to steal a forked limb of witch-hazel
to dowse the pattern of your quiet blood
illustrate (for myself) the deepest pools of your need
and match them with my own meager inventory of qualities
but I spare the limb, spare the blossom
that won't arrive until autumn
after most its leaves have fallen (not unlike my hair)
The wind picks up as we pass under a parish hemlock
that blesses us with two slow waves of its fuzzy arms
and we sidestep a Benjamin bush
(which the colonists used as an all-spice substitute
though only the bob-white, grouse and pheasant feed on it now)
At John Burroughs' spring we are warned that,
while this was his water supply
drinking from it now is dangerous
and another sign says "Private Property"
above some steps that lead to an unimportant nowhere
and I think of my own past
all those "I-should-have-known-better-lovers"
now consigned to an unimaginable somewhere
on the outskirts of my heart being cleaned and remodeled for you
"To learn something new," John Burroughs wrote,
"take the path you took yesterday
and see how many things you observe on your return
which passed unnoticed as you first walked the trail."
I know he is thinking of deer and other animal tracks,
red salamanders, dragonflies, pileated woodpeckers,
holes in trees where chipmunks and various birds reside,
insects, toadstools, other fungi and mosses...
but I am thinking of you
how my own unseemly path took decades to bring me here from
Chicago, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Vancouver, Manhattan,
and a hundred other towns and cities
And how the Rockies, Alps, Blue Ridge,
Smokey and other ranges
can't compare with the simple, miraculous beauty
of these lowly, lovely foothills
with their descending waterfalls into pools, ponds, and lakes
as the mountain irrigates itself,
bleeding fresh, clear water
through one refreshing wound after another
We retrace our steps beneath the inky squid sky
picking our way carefully
through the golden laughter of fireflies lined the path
pause and pay respects to the god of India
whose purpose is even further obscured in the dark
measure the hill that will take us back to the car
to see if your mother might someday survive the climb
glance back at the water
picturing your father with rod and reel on the bank
We spoke less this evening than ever before
but of more important things
Where necessary, we walked one-after-the-other
Where possible, we walked hand-in-hand
This will be the nature of our time together
as we wend our own way through the dark green nightfall
You start the car, turn on the lights
illuminate a sign that says, Sanctuary Lake
I know we will return
Peter Cooper is an author and poet living in the Catskill Mountains of New York.
Love Poetry ?
Peter Cooper
Vivisphere Publishing
The Valley of My Western Heart
Birthmark
Send E-Mail to: petercoop@webspawner.com
Copyright © 2003 Peter Cooper. All Rights Reserved