in my traveling poetry class at the end of august, we met where we often do throughout warmer seasons, along a semi-hidden bank along the schuylkill river in pottstown. and semi-hidden in this case means from the schuylkill river trail, not the water itself.
i wrote a poem for a scene not captured by camera, something which happened at the end of class as we were making our way back to the parking lot. its proverbial gist and skeleton in words are below.
*
i write you in case the others don’t
it is a poem as sam slides one
boot down mud giving way
to barbara's crocs, her hip
meeting the wet of what rain
left behind, hands locked
across the three of us as
we link to even footing
after leaving the river.
we travel for poetry, but
we keep moving, parting
to get away from the tiny hill
pulling the natural world's
prank on us, or not joking
but just documenting that
we're meant to fall down
once in a while, to make
sure we are more humble
than not, as the walking
poems we are, stanzas
hugging homes behind
our bones—lines, lines.
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