Dry Waterfall--that's what it's called
in the language of the garden,
rocks and plants suggesting
a quick-running stream,
though it's only the eye that moves.
I just kept levering and nudging
rocks around until the place looked
a little trampled but serene.
Now last year's gray-blond grasses
flow over the granite's harsh striations,
which are also flowing.
Feet bare, I sweep the stone path,
two years old beneath an inch of leaves,
its half-buried cold reminding
my foot soles that each stone's
mostly underground,
still part of the mountain.
I can see a little way
into the mystery of the lichens,
and they into mine.
My eyes flow over them
and vanish in the grass river,
which pours itself into the wind.
Acorns lie pink and splitting
among the first greening things,
but it's the big stones underfoot
that I love most as I squat to pick
a few damp leaves out of the moss,
because they have forgotten
the crowbar, as I have not.