Photo courtesy of Mukilteo Historical Society
Alone with you, the road unfurled ahead,
a gray ribbon bisecting graying skies
fearful, I was, of running dry of words
and when I did, we sat, at peace with wind.
A lighthouse marked the waypoint of our trip,
museum for earlier ways of life.
Local brewhouse bridged gaps for old and new,
beyond were jagged rocks leading to sea.
Varying postings informing, forewarning
native tribes once hunted, gathered near here,
which seals would leave their young to rest nearby,
how we could disrupt them, earning a fine.
Instantly, you are laughing, climbing rocks,
knowing I would instantly disapprove,
oblivious to my sharp disapproval,
only approving of my outstretched hand.
Through graying grey, bystanders can't stop smiling,
who'd blame them in this heavenly rain?
As clouds play parlor games with distant isles,
we inhale Neptune's breadth, exhale renewed.
The wind bites hard into lovers’ embrace,
your face, rosy, smiling, a knowing glance,
your voice snuggles closer, a wind-whisper,
saying “Think I’m ready for that beer now.”
At the brewhouse, laughter fills our glass mugs
sharing in ideas conversed and implied.
We should begin our journey, homeward bound,
but you insist on the longest path there
And I did not object to such notions.
At first, this prompt struck me as odd because most of my poems have a rhythm to them without me placing much emphasis on the practice of it. But I did try it, and low and behold, I found that actually thinking about the rhythm made my writing process much more challenging. There’s nothing like a challenging exercise to show me how little I actually knew about a thing I once thought mastered! And again, just in time for NaPoWriMo!