At Wentworth Falls

A waterfall of rock splits open the mountain;
steppes and gulfs dyed rust, titian.
In a tangle of ropes, streams plummet
to form a seamless skin. I break rods
of platinum as they plunge into crystal,
wade over hard ripples with toes curled.
From the cascade a smoky rain blows up:
skin swathed by tingling dampness.
Rainbows of spray; pools in hollowed
hands of stone abandoned by sun. Dusk
gathers and amplifies light, as rock, water.
Memories glide over leaves: faded
gold petals, slow butterflies dancing.
I climb the fluid permanence of stone.