by Ben Harris ’16
Sun at half-mast on Sedona sandstone like a high water line of light.
You are looking through the lens at the years
Stretching across the strata of rock,
And I am dripping wet, standing in stillness at your side
The way driftwood washes ashore unannounced.
Cool air on naked skin tells of twilight,
All the time that remains
Until the aperture of this hour curls in on itself,
And leaves us worrying away at the tortoise shells of our selves
Wondering where did it all go, this life
We were rumored to be living.
Minutes from now, when we step into that car and drive from here
The full moon of the moment will sliver.
By then I will be far-gone
Into the days laid out ahead,
Like long ribbons of road, remote.
Out there is a future in which
I am telling myself
You will not waste this time
You will not waste this time
As if this life is some sort of school detention
Scrawled over and over across slate.
So it seems there is nothing more to do but
Walk to that tree bridged between the banks
And like the beaver,
Cut my teeth on the bark of meaning.
You will follow with the camera as I climb,
Bleeding from these bared soles.
When I reach the last of the branches,
I will pause, and prostrate myself
Before the water striders forever skimming the surface of mystery,
Meanwhile the rest of us stop to think
And sink.
When I let myself go and slip into the waiting stream
Your shutter may break the silence.
But I won’t have heard—
I’ll be busy listening
To the story spoken in the syllables of river stones,
Their whispers coming through water like whale song.
And in the end I will have to trust you to tell me
If falling from that tree
Did I make a sound.