Again, I climb
Again, I climb
the crest of the last rise
before the road twists its way
downhill to the bay.
She lifts into view, her frosted top floating,
as these Pacific Northwest peaks will do,
a mirage above a shimmering cake stand,
and without blush I confess to her—
my dear, dear Mount Baker.
As well I wave blessings to the moon
when it delights me, emerging full
from behind a cloud in leaden 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 hovels of the old,
fated to never see the moon rise again and again,
and then, to not see again.
Editor’s note: Personification is used to great effect in this poem. The landscape and moon are alive and well-loved, and even mourned as time passes and the narrator speculates on what will be.
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