The narrow brown path, like a stream bed
formed by death, black heels crushing
seeds, almost sterile, almost lunar.
The sparse green blades, together
like banks for the stream bed, curving out quietly,
turning from us, holding the dew away.
She and I stood, unspeaking, at the crest,
the view striking us mute, this view
of Silicon Valley from a hill over the trees.
The magic broken by Robert,
who had to talk,
commenting on our silence.
/ / /
This poem was written in response to Lying in a Hammock for Tuesday’s Tryout at Margo Roby’s Wordgathering blog.
This poem is based on a real event, a poetry field trip, which my Introduction to Poetry teacher, John Lovas, did with his students. We left the campus, drove to this spot that had this amazing view of the valley, and we read poems to each other out in nature.
I tried to use the senses, to make it descriptive, and to move toward the epiphany… or, rather, the epiphany interrupted, by Robert, a fellow student in the class. He happened to be a good poet himself; he just talked too much.