It wasn’t until I left my town that I began to learn its secrets. Winter break after my first semester in university, I drove home the back way and fell in love for the first time with the turns in the roads, the bareness of the deciduous trees on either side, river birch peeling and turning to slush in the canoes of the highway shoulder. I left my home behind and arrived at my house. I hadn’t started calling it “my parent’s house” yet. I wasn’t sure what to call it.

In Tacoma's winter, bright and rainy grace,

A tale unfolds in each raindrop's embrace.

Tacoma Elf Storage, a festive sight,

The mystery continues to fervent delight […]

Not for man's conventions but

For the peace with the wild,

I practice sitting still–

For mornings on my back deck

To watch the soft rabbit in the grass

And the yearling buck who steps slow

Out of wood's edge to curl

Into a bed of clover he nibbles […]

the world is a dangerous
place to love a child

I am reckless

to want their future
above water

to not write
their identification
on their backs
in permanent ink […]