She waits—
in patient agitation.
Gently stretching and rolling
through the vastness of time,
careful not to disturb
the creatures she cradles.
Mile-high evergreens
brushing the sky.
The sea—
a perpetual cleansing.
The creeping verdant carpet of moss
straining
to cover us all, if given the chance—
retake what has been stolen.
Mountains rising from the sea like a giant beast,
its breath a swirling, encircling smoke.
An exhale of mist hanging in the air—
pervasive,
damp,
settling like a blanket.
Streaks of black and grey
on the tanned face of The Chief—
the vestige of a volcanic kiss.
Cliffs reaching impossibly
for communion with the sun,
jagged edges of youth
written across their faces.
She bides.
Slowly breathing—
one breath per season.
Patiently waiting—
certain—
her time
will come again
I wrote this after a recent trip out to Squamish BC in Canada. It wasn’t my first trip but it’s impossible to go out there and not feel small and insignificant next to the grandeur of the landscape. The highway that hugs the coast is called the “Sea To Sky highway 99” and “The Chief” is the imposing cliff face that dominates the landscape in Squamish.