Forest . . . clearing . . . rockshore . . . Alaska-bound on a cloudy Thursday, August throbbing underfoot, See the moments pass To port and starboard: Deep green hills Sharp-edged with spruce And behind them, dim and still, The years rising into cloud Up where ridges thrust, a meadow harbors night, Yet nothing stirs.
Your first love is up there,
The summer you learned to swim,
Wet coral airstrips. But only the moments move, being Near enough to reflect Our passage. (Deeper in vacation You'll perceive, for a while, without The habit of explanation.) Forest . . . blue smoke . . . a cabin . . . Rocks with drying nets . . . thicket . . . A bear (cameras! shouts!)
a beached canoe . . . Pass with a subtle turn,
recede, begin To fuse with the years. To be Recalled to binocular freshness, evergreen.