Easter, Fall Creek, After Days of Rain

by Liza Hyatt

In the years since your death,
I grew used
to living underwater,
slowly untangling
roots, branches,
driftwood, debris.

When was it –
when I was sleeping?
when I was waking ?

– that those old snags,
hidden below the surface
and slowly worked upon by grief,

finally let go
and were washed downstream?

The impeded place
that pulled me under
is suddenly
open,
clear,
flowing.

 Song

by Liza Hyatt

Poetry taught me
to bring words to the edge
of silence, where they
grew so few I fell
into a deep well.

In stillness, I sat listening
to presence; I saw,
in the dark, my path.

I followed its thread
to the place between
ground nothing can disturb
and all I used to know.

There, I began to sing.

Lazy Afternoon at Fort Ben

by Liza Hyatt

Full of self,
always some heavy,
round urgency
to push uphill,
with every pause
for breath, a harsh voice
demands, “Build me up!
Hurry! Get back to work!”
and there is no time
to feel lonely.

Suddenly stopping,
I lie on the ground
and watch the clouds,
the trees, the birds
flowing, and realize
how open, how quiet,
how roomy and
unfamiliar
this body is

as the world welcomes me
and the rock-hard, old,
false-self careens
irretrievably
down its well-worn path,
first gaining speed
and as the hill softens
slowing until at last,
far out of sight,
it reaches a gentle
and complete stop.