The Waterfall Poem by Jean Bernard Parr

They were slow moving
waters I waded in
when I was young
a long time
figuring out how
you write the novel
that is going make
your name
none came, there were
flaws, ok, but I liked
the little gargoyles
I had made
I thought they were proof
of ingenuity
that I had it in me

trouble is, the edifice
was all wrong
my keystone blocks
my buttresses, arches
and kneelers
didn't add up
in the end I put it in
a drawer, not bothering
to put out feelers
the rain gurgled out of
my gargoyles but it
never became a flood
and now that I am old
and have let go of
everything I know
I have found poetry
the way you find
a waterfall.

First there is
a soft heart drum
birdcall and something
like a jet plane roar
you get to a clearing
and all that white
is tumbling down
in a frame of green
suddenly you see,
you're on your own
seeing what everyone
has seen before