View from my porch, sunrise across Discovery Bay, Mount Baker in the background,
Port Townsend in the foreground.
Again, I climb
the crest of the last rise
before the road twists downhill to the bay.
She lifts into view, her icing top floating
as these Pacific NW peaks will do
above a shimmering cake stand
and without blush I confess to her--
my dear, dear Mount Baker.
As well I sing bless you to the moon
when it delights me, emerging full
from behind a cloud in darkened sky
to guide me home again.
The me that only sings or cries
alone in the car foresees the day I will not
round this curve again, not drive again,
not see mountaintops again, have to leave
my home for the sheltered hovel of the old,
to never really see the moon again and again,
and then, to not see again.