The Poet’s Bench

Surrounding me on all sides is mountain laurel, its signature wavy trunk and branches filling the woods in every direction, an astonishing sight. I’ve never seen so much in one great expanse. Traveling through that understory greatly tempts but I resist. I am on a different quest today, one that requires a right turn, not walking straight ahead.

I approach the path which slopes slightly downward. On my left a small trickle of a brook lined with bits of skunk cabbage and wild purple violets in clumps makes its less than enthusiastic way. A trail caretaker has mowed enough of the path for me to forge on without getting itchy or the tick heebiejeebies. Then I spot the small cave to the right, no more than four feet high but sealed at its entrance with an iron grate. Are we banned from entry or are they keeping something in?

Ten minutes or so in and slightly higher in elevation, this smaller section of mountain laurel gives way to standards like oak and maples and other shrubs and scrub. I hear Wyassup Brook long before I see it. No other sound penetrates the forest save occasional birdsong.

The path narrows as I enter more deeply. I am hidden, alone on 76 acres and it occurs to me that maybe I should have let someone know where I was going, to follow good walking/hiking protocol. But I am prone to spontaneity and as I drove through the winery grounds with their sprouting vines, and then the dairy and its stink of manure, then into the shared driveway on Grindstone Hill, it was already too late. Being alone was the only way forward.

The rushing water grows louder. As I come upon an opening, what lays before me is a marvel of glacial creation. Wyassup Brook weaves before me, in and out of a naturally stone lined mazed, one with swaths of long and semi-flat boulders perfect for respite. Some sit 10–15 feet above a swirling pool bend while others taper and meet the water where it lays. This is the Poet’s Bench.

I am compelled to sit and immerse myself. Beneath me the stone is cool as it’s still early in the day. The green leaves on the trees are not yet full but the foliage along the brook, the marsh marigold, the ferns, in golden yellow greens are in full glory. A hint of mineral fragrance makes its way up from the moving water below me. What I see is movement, ever forward, decisive despite the wandering. What I feel is calm, simultaneously full and empty. This is the meditation I found. This is where the poet sits.