La Push

The bracken ferns, the fiddleheads, the brambles
Bearing berries black as night, the mournful
Douglas firs, the ice-blue mountains in the distance,
Skies brought low by clouds so moist and gray
As dirty rags, the charmless, frigid northern ocean,
These would be my fastest friends. The smiling
Faces, tinkling glasses, fellow workers, fellow poets,
Women who were nearly lovers, aren't. It seems I'm
Cursed, or blessed, to comb the beach alone,
To spy the killer whale, and hail it (to no end,
Of course) as I pursue my share of razor clams,
And huddle somewhere near La Push, a hut
For home, a biome for a social circle. Think
Of me when glasses tinkle, if you wish. I
Am long gone. I've never done so well with
Humans as I seem to do with bracken ferns.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 77 times
Written on 2018-03-07 at 01:40

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