The Final Forest or What the Olympic Peninsula Means to Me.
I can accept the weather's bedraggled reasons,
following Pacific patterns to hop the rocks
and collapse across the thick roof of this world.
Rain comes down and sits inside
the cracked hands of fallen fir and spruce.
Nothing so green, so lush, ever seen before.
What I have out here is not quite an island life.
This place is the stray bark of the at-last and long-ago.
Of course, I didn't come empty handed.
The arid roads I carry always seem to come along.
But here, beyond Seattle, beyond the ferry,
beyond the open palm of Puget sound,
my world is one of old-growth, fog and rain,
soaked to the bone with a far-away song.
Friends ask me what the peninsula means to me:
It means the far-away starts to feel right.