At the Falls

Above the current
fed by summer storms

the ledge and boulders
are lush in miniature:

as ribbons of weed
shimmy, submerged,

out from the stone
bursts a trumpet of lichen.

Translucent ferns
bruise beneath our feet.

*

This heart-shaped leaf
I almost recognize, stepping clear:

green against black earth

it flares
            like light.

*

I could come back with guidebooks,
my focus best at close range—
and trace for days, for weeks,

the names that grow here,
private—wordless among themselves—

the water so loud we're forced to shout.

Copyright © 2007 Martha Carlson-Bradley All rights reserved
from Season We Can't Resist
WordTech Editions
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission