Beneath the Bridge

From high above the water, the river looks placid, calm.
But from below you can see the wreckage of storms,
gnarled limbs, whole trees, so much broken debris
all poised to break loose again at any time.

It is a temple down below,
a holy place of the broken.
Seldom seen. Always there.
A different kind of beauty, reserved

only for those who are not content,
those who insist on exploring beyond the river’s surface,
who see the dark places
and fall in love, less with the dark, or the light,

but the interplay, the juxtaposition
of one against the other,
the secret spaces where everything changes,
and beauty is ever new.

About this poem

Sometimes the most beautiful is what we don’t see… unless we look.

The picture was taken near my sister’s house in Richmond, Virgina.

Tom