This is winter in Cascadia.
Oceans gather, lift and drop.
Trailing backward to stand on a rocky beach
with pebbles for eyes, waving cedar
while the pain of love
pounces your throat–
all rise now to the sea-jungle
rowing into the sound, the great waves
going long ways with singing canoes
by the ferns for a memory;
“Wood, stone, feather and bone,
roaring of the ocean, guide us home/
Wolf and raven, Wolf and raven,
in my soul, in my soul…”
Someone I love
has made a fire on the sand,
hand-drill and tinder-bundle
carried close to the heart
in mist-wool on the skin
of our people, our passage.
Dawn climbs rosy-cheeked and panting
home on wind-feathered faces–
on the shore.