Ahead, A Bridge

Daily Note

Every day, a photograph, a poem. This little bridge at the end of our street leads to Cole Park, a magical place you get a peek of here. The bridge and the park with its many kinds of trees, almost an arboretum, has inspired poetry, stories, photographs, Daily Creates, and adventures with grandkids– since just west of here is– “The Bat Cave.” At one time the park included a pool where our daughter was a life guard. Yes, just down the street, a city pool.

The greens of summer and the colors of autumn, dancing in the sunlight and shadow cast a feel of wonder as we wander across this bridge, and one other. And so a poem…

Poetry

Ahead, A Bridge

As I wander along the neighborhood streets
Ahead, a bridge of white crosses the creek
Surrounding it in yellows, reds, and brown
an autumn canopy supports a play ground
as squirrels and birds dart through and under
sunlight sparkles; “Are those fairies,” I wonder?

Sheri Edwards
11.16.22 321.365.22
Poetry/Photography

And a Daily Create

The Daily Create Prompt today: #clmooc #DS106  @ds106dc   #tdc3960 Random Place– click the link and jump to a random place to share a story of getting there and getting home.

My Story, after landing in Tuitt’s — I have no idea where it is.

Story:

What? Where am I? The last thing I remembered I was stepping onto the footbridge over Fiddle Creek when, instead of the bubbling rush of the tiny flowing creek, I heard the call of the meadowlark and a gentle lullaby — a fiddled tune that pulled me— I checked my watch— to Tuitt’s? What is Tuitt’s? WHERE is Tuitt’s? My watch, batteries now drained, placed me on an island— inland about two miles from the ocean to the east.

I stood in a meadow on a trail splitting in two directions, with one grassy and wanted wear, so I took the one less traveled by.

And that has made all the difference, for I wandered through a field of wildflowers — cornflower, columbine, wood sorrel, and lavender, each in bloom and seemingly leading me on as each bobbed and waved me forward along the narrow path. At first, the sun warmed my soul, but then the sky darkened, not in storm, but in solace just as I reached a small bluff overlooking a rocky beach with soft waves lapping to shore. I saw no path, but then the little red columbine’s yellow stamen brightened like small lanterns along a gentle slope with the blue cornflower leaning downward towards the beach. Behind me, the evening twilight closed in and so I accepted the lantern lights, knowing I shall be telling this with a sigh somewhere ages and ages hence: two paths diverged in a meadow, and I took the one to the beach, where, as I stepped onto the rocks, I found myself back on the footbridge, surrounded by the soft rustling of leaves in a yellow wood beside Fiddle Creek.

Sheri Edwards
Inspired by and lines lifted in remix 
from Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken

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