In the Pacific North-West,
when the tide rolls in,
the wind comes along for the ride.
Haughty Hemlocks nod their welcome.
Gnarly Oaks and lanky Aspens tremble with excitement.
Stately Cedars sway and sing,
joining the arboreal symphony.
The wandering wind
finds some Firs to wrestle with.
Climbing up a Cottonwood,
she whispers in its good ear.
Then races down to tickle the clingy Salals and Blackberries,
circling a wispy Willow, and
twisting an Arbutus some more.
Alder, Birch, and Cascara heads are knocked together
until the wind finds a giant Sequoia
to shake limbs with a Sitka Spruce.
Thundering above the roiling tides
and the riling wind amidst reluctant hosts,
a Coast Salish song rises,
of battles won,
and wars lost.
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At the end of March 2018, I had an episode of Costochondritis, most likely induced by stress. My very worried partner and our closest friends organized an intervention to counter my objections to ignoring my deadlines for a few days. My willfulness vanquished by genuine concern of loved ones, I was packed up and sent off to a dear friend’s beach house overlooking an inlet of the Salish Sea. The property sits within a hidden string of houses and majestic trees lining a sheltered cove.
All I had for company were some books, painting supplies, and a single short daily meal-time visit by partner. The first day, I just sat and watched the gentle waves, mesmerized, almost comatose. Birds sang all day, trees sighed all night. Meal time broke the hypnosis, bringing the welcome company of my partner, but also awareness of the outer world so deftly hidden from my current view.
On the second night, despite the chilly temperature, I sat in the veranda, wrapped in a blanket, listening to the waves lapping the shore, pondering my privilege in being in this space. The wind tickled the giant trees, which encircled the house in a half-moon embrace. As I gratefully soaked in the lyrical tranquility, I became aware of a distant drumming sound. Perhaps from the First Nation Reserve that was just around the corner from this hidden haven. Or perhaps mysterious echoes of a time long past. A past, which continues to reverberate in present injustices. In that moment, this poem came to me.
Meenal (April 2, 2018)
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