Lost Cause In Six Or More Colors
It is no accident that I am here
where the only lane left has slipped to sea;
here on this fault with no safety belt,
no stay pole or traveler to slow the falling.
When tides run high and the herons leave,
I ride silent, north from Hare Creek
past the old sawmills and dog hole ports,
logging camps where alders lean white,
grieve in the leavings of old growth trees.
Approaching the Bailey bridge, my fear
becomes palpable, rises up from my gut–
heart to throat– while I wait for the flag man
to turn his sign from Stop to Slow, to be
the next one suspended over crews below.
Orange-vested and out-witted, they still try
to tame her. This year with rip rap, PVC
and red clover.
by Patricia Wallace Jones
Editor’s Note: This poem uses allegory to create an emotional narrative that is deeper than the obvious imagery of driving through construction.