Postscript for Madrona Marsh

Shading your brow from the late morning sun,
you’ve come back, no stranger to vernal pools
or the king snakes you clubbed in your youth
under willows that cloaked your laughter.
Back then – one bright noon, you and a cousin
broached the marsh’s fence and you ran
your fingers through hair that fell down
her naked back, your other hand clutching
a gift of primrose and lupine, her soft
whistling all the music you needed that hour.
These decades later, wild grasses lean west
where meadowlarks glide over back dunes,
hawks high enough in the wild air to sanction
warblers in wind. You know that any new path
you plan today will run heavy with light.