|Oct/Nov 2019 Poetry Special Feature|
Seaside waders cruise among the old
pilings at Brackett's Landing,
blackish blue against a glitter-play of mud flats
licked by wavelets,
this slice of Edmonds's floating world worthy
of Hokusai or Hiroshige—
issued on paper in orange and indigo.
No Mt Fuji here but
to the west, the ragged Olympics—
looking north, Mt Baker—
climbed years ago by our four sons
rappelling off a single rope,
tiny creatures scaling crags as huge as
the heart of the venture.
We linger here at sunset,
wait for the ferry to reach the pier, its legs creaky
the café musters diners for salmon, the local brew,
some loganberry pie
as gulls scat and squawk over the
scenes framed by the old timbre of this place.