POCKET LINT

  • HOW TO BE A WATERFALL

    a poem about water falling

    Waterfall used to mean start drinking and don't stop until the person to your left stopped drinking, and I'd always hold it as long as possible, til the bottom of the cup, to the dismay of all those to my right.

    You could forget about your surroundings long enough to disappear in a breath, maybe. Hold it in long enough to drown. Make sure everyone around you is having enough fun to forget it all ever happened in the morning.

    In Athens, I met a different waterfall. It was not grand. Just a few rocks in a creek, a subtle obstacle for water to flow: around; erosion. I met it there everyday for a month. I prayed to the water. I prayed to the rocks. To find the ground underneath my feet and root. To find the flow and trust in the movement. To connect and become the water, the rock, the air, in a breath: to see the permeability of membranes, to became an agent in this greater ecosystem. Not one and one and two, but everything.

    A waterfall in upstate New York. Not really a waterfall, but a manmade obstruction, water falling. I sat with David in the water as it fell over around us, crashing. Found breath with David in the crashing water.

    Here, Round Falls. A foam creature growing, moving, becoming: a foam friend. I took You there.

    These are not grand waterfalls. Just water falling. Just finding breath. Hardly spectacular, but beautiful in their softness, soft violent crashing waters. They are not the kind of falls that might destroy you immediately, but slowly, your edges wear down. Over time, water seeps into cracks that spread, and you fall open, eventually, to become something new, yet made up of the same.