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From Nisqually Blue

Final strophe of a long poem called Nisqually Blue. Scene is the headwaters of a glacially fed river of that name.

And brightly now the white Nisqually sound
while the wild woman kept on coming
to the surface in your face.
And the river wash, the beating echo
soaking down around the valley’s Venus mound,
wetting the long hem of your skirt
as you went from stem to stem,
crossing to, cutting out, coming in,
your instep’s narrow crease in the earth.
Then the quiet, the hovering silence,
the hush inside darker cedar shade
pulling into where you pulled on your lover;
only then the Nisqually mood
when we opened up on the doorway,
giving in on the sibylline,
the raised Mother Rock, the belly boulder,
beneath cedar bow bending,
and gracious ground rilling through,
to sweep inside white river spray,
carrying us before the lore,
the higher game in secret fame,
to feel our way back beside
thrown back behind
the Earth Woman’s tidal quake.


Last edited by Terreson, May/7/2020, 4:05 pm
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