the glen

the path that winds downhill
is overgrown this year;
it catches the wheels of my cart,
spills out my water.

i am late to this painting party -
grapes are mostly eaten,
remaining guests sparse,
folding chairs scattered the length of its cut bank.

an older artist studies roots downstream;
mid-stream, a lady with laugh lines
paints the patterns of the mud bank;
downhill, an acrylic artist sits at the meadow’s end in sunlight.

i pick up discarded debris – pinecones, dropped moss,
a flower; nothing feels like i belong;
i fidget, drag my laden kit, listen to bridge rattle my wheels.
i just can’t locate my right spot.

i follow the west side of the steep-seated creek,
muddy banks cut with rivulets of recent rains;
all the favorite vantages are claimed
and the northern bridge, the worn wooden one - washed out.

i wander back, cross the metal grating of the south bridge -
wheels a noisy clatter as they advance and fall.
i know my tardy attendance disturbs contemplation …
my late arrival, my baggage, my inexperience.

i lug my hopes and kit to the meadow & turn;
that picnic area i just passed through
filled with dappled sap-green glow,
branches arched overhead, outlined in sunlight.

here i belong;
artists who came before me pose on waterbanks.
light & shadow dance  iin light breezes
as summer waits on the wing -

this nostalgia calls for watercolor.