She collected feathers, old buttons, battered bottles, smooth beach glass, crystal door knobs, salt shakers from before any world wars……Hell, before she had her spoken word comfort. She just stumbled her words out like an awkward puppy moment.
What transpired between the collecting of things and her new found passion for spoken word, is the source of the river’s new story line.
It traverses between the smokies and remote areas of the catskills. Bears, deer, toads and black willows are especially prevalent. But thanks to deep snows which hardly melt by June, the river moves with no concern.
It becomes delicious icy cold, drunk out of a tin cup, left by the old willow since we did our last full moon ritual. It began to rain, the quiche was getting wet. We went inside to play music and talk about not much really. But it was absorbing and comforting.
The echo in the sunken living room, with floor to ceiling windows on three sides…facing upstream, downstream, mid-stream, flows with no expectations, an ear shot from where we sit. The tiny drum roll of the rain slicing the stream in ribbons of lighted beauty was enough to arrest our gaze, and never let it go. We surrendered to the flow we had known without question, since childhood. We were remembering on breast bones, thymus cells, and within conception vessels….the sensations of fragrant freedom.
grasses scratching legs and feet.
taking to the fields
Prose poetry, and Photo by Kate Lamberg~ all rights reserved. (c) ’13
copyright © Kate Lamberg all rights reserved