Thirty-five years ago
I visited this rocky coast
with a long-haired hippie woman.
Skagit-eyes filled with the sea,
she ran along the shore,
far to the south.
How long was she gone?
Long enough for me
to become afraid.
Time looped,
anxiety pitted me.
Toward dark she returned, salted, alive,
thanking me again and again
for time given.
I managed a smile,
concealing fears
that shaped me
long after
her final
departure.
La Push, February, ’03
(No. 97 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)
Recently I walked this now familiar segment of NW Washington coast and thought back on the fears I’ve long had to deal with in my relationships. The “slow release” refers not only to Nancy, an old girl friend, but to many of the fears themselves, which have slowly but surely dissipated.
(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)
