Born on her hill
As was my mother
As was she...
Still too young
To dance with Chicago,
She dances with me
As old man New York sits
While I waltz
Flush with glee.
Not far from the Sunday Ballroom Cathedral
of her hills,
In the riverlands of the Duwamish,
I sweet sleep deep,
Cradled in the folds and holds,
Of night harbor music
and the lyrical tapestry
of her arms...
Seattle huddles her lakes
In long arms of green rims and ridges
Pressed bold and folded
Across the rosetted fleece of sunset,
Her sculpted stone men-in-waiting
Perch luminous and bathe in gold aurora,
Along the velvet edges of dusk,
And gaze the nippled swash and sway
Of night-comings and their maiden’s passion
For courtship’s sunrise promise of early mirth
And the color brush canopy of day...
. . .