Hiking in the Cascades

1970

Each year I go to the Cascades to take young women
On botany hikes in organized tours of one-
A study of huge blossoms spreading from inner ovules,
Stamens with their pollen-sticky anthers standing
Big within the gaping pink orifice.
(Rated "PG" for poets, "X" for gardeners, "G" for O'K
But these women aren't nature-lovers at heart.
Some are wedded to senile astrology: they don't see
The Sun, Moon or Venus, or Mars but their instant of birth
That marks its influence; they chart their worth.
I, in the cold untuned sky, see the force that cast this
It guides me now. When a wind, not forecast,
Strips the Cascade boughs, we don't freeze. That same storm
Piles leaves and blossoms that keep us sane and warm.

1980

A decade ago, I had courage in mountain passes.
But I surrendered it in exchange for watchfulness
And woodland instincts: I circle, wary and slow,
What women in the center hide, reveal and know.
I look down, half hoping some tigers of ambition
Will turn into butter at the bottom of my tree.
It doesn't happen because they have skill and good sense.
They have gathered solar heat and starlight to burn.
They are ripe with assurance. It's their turn.

1988

Half way up the slope, we sit and read.
We nod over our book, whose fingers keep
Its single place as we sift down to sleep,
Marking the number and place of passion.