stories on the rock

 

our mountain home

our mountain home is perched just above LeConte Creek,

within a curve where the stream drops abruptly,

in high water the force of the drop shouts in a roar of power

within which tumble great stones

who thud against each other and shake the earth

as the sea calls them home,

an early settler on this place used 

the power of the dropping stream to grind corn,

at the same place where the tub mill stood

the community built a pump house to use water 

from the creek for nearby homes when needed,

my parents found this spot and when it first went on sale claimed it,

they even bought the easement so only we in this area own to the creek,

we built our house in the middle of the old road

so we post signs on our upper and lower borders 

to welcome folks to pass through

to the national park or back down the mountain,

climate change has dialed up the frequency of storms, even droughts,

those stones who have not been excessively pummeled in the tumult of high water

still wear a light coats of moss and lichen,

whose endurance tells me of the luxuriousness 

of the excessive growth of a rain-forest,

though here it is more echo than the reality of so wet a world,

now, today, many stones in the path of high water's enthusiasm

are cleanly grey as if untouched by life,

scoured clean of even the long tales of lichen,

I appreciate their clarity of stone by and for itself,

but I love more the bonding of the lichen and the mosses,

I, too, want to endure and leave my mark.

by Henry H. Walker

November 26-28, ‘25