CHURCH IN THE MIST
What shore is this... my ship still lists?
What Church slow-rising from the mists?
Where penguins lay their eggs in albatross- square,
Streams cascade down the rocky cliffside where
Archangels guard the weather-beaten door,
Revealed through golden rigging near the shore.
Five pod of orcas prowl the inland-sea,
And spray moist breath on fjord's narrow lee.
I'm safe at last on grassy solid ground,
is this a Russian coast my sails have found?
Or could it be the domes of Taj Mahal?
An English sermon floats its morning-call...
A mystic domed cathedral faces shore...
I stumble from my ship and reach the door;
Not knowing: spend long hours in days of fevered sleep;
And wake to see the sunshine rising from the deep:
A Turner painting in bright colors caught
A hundred years before this church was wrought.
Ice blocks from glaciers break and plunge to sea;
A floatplane crosses glacier-tor near me,
While logs and branches spin in log-jammed stream,
Ride churning channel..eddy like a dream
The fluted bark of hemlock hikes the hills,
With cornflower-sunbeams spraying on the rills.
The air is loud..cicadas buzz in trees,
The smell of moist fern stirs in drying breeze,
And Turner's palette mixes right degree.
Of water, light, and glowing sun in sea.
I think I hear the roar of glacier-calf..
Draw back in fear, but tourists only laugh.
I join their tents and salmon-cooking feast,
Forgetting fear of iceberg and wild beast.
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SURVIVING THE STORM
Along the foothills marsh-mists rise and fall;
Through glass I see their trail of fog across
The window-sky and sense a coming squall.
The leaves of shadow-deer and pine now toss
And curl around my shaky beach-craft words.
Alone at summer's end...limned sea waves roll
And ice-glass glaciers flash like slashing swords.
How store away this year...this summer scroll?
Join walkers in suburban malls, or hide
From man, and watch the sailship's rigging blow?
I'll live a hermit's life... while worlds collide
Now caught in cosmic strife, and hail, and snow...
Among storm traces write o rhythmic sea,
Till springtime comes again, and sets me free.
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ICE SCULPTURE
The wings and winds of nature blow
The pristine air through mountain trails
Up high in Cascades where the glow
Of glaciers shimmers like ship sails.
Blue ice and Chinook winds foretell
A shiver, rain, and winter's search
In solitude, I hear a bell
That echoes from the valley church
Along the river running green
And parallel to village streets.
What joy, to be alive and dream
And marvel at dame nature's treats,
In carving melting ice: to caves,
Cathedrals, sailing ships, and waves.
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