23 days in and here I am at the Skidmore Bluffs, watching barges drift into the port. I’m sitting on a flower-adorned bench dedicated to Michele Stephenson with the quote “you live in my heart.” The blue-pink sky is gorgeous and I’m seriously regretting not bringing my camera, but I suppose as a writer I should try to use my words:
Clouds, as if the wet leaves
of Portland’s trees had fallen up
to splash autumn on the sky,
and footsteps below had trampled them
from fiery orange to dusty purple
as they stumbled along the sidewalk.
Portland, between the blurred horizon
of whispered-arrow pines
and the reflection of a river,
casting passion into the blue-gray above,
lingering for an echo
as its lights begin to clamor.
I wrote that poem, tore it out of my notebook and left it on the bench with the words “Thank you for inspiring the beautiful bench. May you rest in peace.” Hopefully someday soon I’ll make it back there to finish it.