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by Marie Eaton
They say the landscape of your childhood
is the landscape of your heart,
the tapestry of home woven from colors and textures
of that remembered horizon.
So, although I have wandered across the planet,
from the red soil clay of Kentucky and Kenya,
mountain ridges in the Himalayas,
and desert scrub of Joshua Tree,
to the turquoise blue of the Great Barrier Reef,
the dusky green of fir and cedar
and red arms of madrone
reaching across a silvered blue bay
signal home to me.
Gazing out a window
at swaths of green wrapping the hillside
as the plane glides past Mount Baker
for the approach to landing,
or out a car window
climbing the pass out of the Skagit Valley
every branch and bough whispers
Marie Eaton taught writing at Fairhaven College at Western Washington University for many years, and now as Professor Emerita is the Community Champion for the Palliative Care Institute at Western Washington University.
by Tim Pilgrim
City fled, along with virus, loss,
I spin compass, re-spin, choose west.
Forest, stream, sinuous, deep,
I camp, rig rod, fish. Cast Gray Ghosts
to the far side, expect no strike.
I begin to breathe, hope
hope revives. Presume zip, nada, zilch,
live frugally, on surprise.
I daydream I die, return not old,
not spent, eager to learn to fish again.
The sun weighs down, light dives maroon
from gold. Dusk swallows tamarack,
cedar, pine. Riffles gone to eddies
swirl to black. I trace path back,
tent, pack, remains of fire,
accept dark coals, revel in the ebb.
Timothy Pilgrim, emeritus associate professor of journalism at Western Washington University, is the author of “Seduced by metaphor: Timothy Pilgrim collected published poems” (Cairn Shadow Press, 2021). His work can be found at timothypilgrim.org.