story and photos by Derek Doeffinger
I occasionally read poetry, infrequently write it, but, until now, never show it. But sometimes age trades inhibition for inspiration, and spring in the Finger Lakes offers plenty of inspiration. And while I don’t belong to the American Academy of Poets (originators of National Poetry Month), for better or worse, I will share a poem. It even rhymes at times. Just don’t ask me to sing.
Spring waterfall in a gorge
Water spills and falls and leaps for joy.
Jumps from clouds and spreads its wings
to crash and splash and spray a gloss
on leaves, on rocks, on petals, and other things.
Then slips along a stem, shivers off a flower,
slithers along a crevice, totters atop a moss,
and then whispers to gravity about a ploy
to join their forces, unleash their power
to tug on the hill, to pound until it shatters.
Then sweep rocks, trees and debris down the hill
into the stream; toss in the forest just for the thrill
and watch the water fall and tear itself into tatters.