Winter is technically over, but really. I live in Seattle, where winter wears out its welcome well into May and June.
People around here know that, if we aren’t willing to go play outside when it’s raining, we will be spending a lot of time indoors. (Like, maybe, all of it.) This poem is in honor of the majestic mountain hikes of the Seattle area, which provide reasons to get out of the house.
Winter Hike in the Mountains
This was a logging road, once,
a surgical incision, raw scar tissue of forest.
Now it provides growing space for
this intrusion of scotch broom, aggression of blackberry,
invasion of ivy and assault of holly,
all imported to prune and plant the wild into submission:
a tidy garden.
The road is in decline, however.
All scars fade with time, and
native trees live long and grow tall.
When once the sun no longer reaches here,
all trespassers wither in shadow,
this once-road known only as
the quickest way to water
for the passing hooves of deer.