Cumberland Falls by Silas House

O, let them be … 
Gerard Manley Hopkins 

In high school the biggest dare was to slink
over the slick rocks flanking Cumberland Falls, 
where the wide but shallow river dives 
seventy feet into a deep pool of froth. 
There, people say, catfish big as men twist 
and slither, awaiting suppers sped 
their way. You can see a rainbow at night, 
shimmering on the mist during a full 
moon and a clear sky. This is true. I snuck 
behind the green curtain once with my best 
friend, whose name I won’t say because he 
never came out. Just as we reached the veil 
of water where we would disappear 
into another world, I slipped. My right 
leg slid down the cold boulder and before 
I could plunge into the churning chaos 
where torrent met river, he grabbed hold 
of my hand. I was so electrified 
by his touch I didn’t think of how close 
I was to being swept away. 
Instead I thought how a small moment 
of ecstasy is akin to drowning. 
He held on for a beat longer 
than necessary. The roar behind 
the falls was a deafening symphony heard 
only by those brave enough 
to penetrate this darksome cavern 
carved by centuries. Fern-laden, alive 
with the smell of moss. A secret cathedral 
made of wildness and wet. We were mesmerized, 
and stood watching the cascade as if frozen 
yet, as if we might see through to the other side.