Sol Duck

Going back to the peninsula,
going back to something original—
I won’t go into the details of
what needed to be shed in a
lifetime constantly shedding itself,
the names snapping me back—
Poulsbo, Port Gamble, Port Ludlow,
then Chimacum, Sequim, Kalalok…
the child mind seeing through
the haze of the intellectual present,
the mesmerizing sun, the expanding sea.

I pour over maps, the roads, the rivers,
the outlines of forests and I am
peering into a great mystery,
a novel, the beauty of places I’ve been
and will never see, the names,
the accumulation of details zeroing in
to finer and finer focus, to cabins
on a river, to pathways, to springs,
to the beginning of things in sky.