There is no doubt that I will make my way
over this bridge, testing
it’s stability one foot at a time,
taking a handrail in case of moss slip
in damp air.
But I want to linger here.
I have missed the sound of river over rock,
unending shifting song.
Too many times
I have moved ahead without noticing
how many colors of stones lay
sunlight dazzled,
letting the lace of leaves brush over
and pass.
If I take this time
my skin will open to leftover rain
and I will enjoy the pleasures of heating up
and cooling down
and my bones will stack
into a shape of calm.
Lifting my eyes to the path continuing on
the other side of this bridge
I am tired.
Let me linger.
Let me dangle feet over edge
and feel the path there on either side of me.
Let me wonder at how this bridge was built,
how wood can seem to curve and hover,
how I do not understand the structures of support
even as they hold me.
I will not stay at this bridge, I know.
But I might take these shoes off and press my toes
into cool air and watch what is moving
as I sit still.
I might imagine
curves in the path ahead, steep steps and sprawling meadows.
I might not think at all.
Let me linger.
Let this bridge be my rest.
Let the river voice become lullaby
Don’t rush
Don’t rush
Don’t rush
Don’t rush
(Melissa Fritchle, 2020)