We pitched our tents at Rialto,
then hiked north past Hole-in-the-Wall,
past the Chilean Memorial,
looped around Cape Johnson
and moved inward to Lake Ozette,
where we rested.
On the way back we clambered over
rocks in the dark, got trapped
by the tide, and had to spend the night
in shorts by a fire.
But back, finally, at our tents,
cooking pancakes, what I remembered –
and remember now most –
is my reading a poem, not my own,
at the lake, and faltering,
who was I to read such a thing?
And your gently urging me on,
as though you could know and love in me
what I couldn’t yet love
For John Daniels
And for Shelley and Darryl
His highway 14 is a string of lights
in this fog, and the river is only
just now visible. Back at the manse
he’s stuck in a frame looking
at his books, the neat sets he
never read, and wonders if he
Given his druthers he’d be not in the frame
and not on the road,
but on the terrace overlooking the river,
where no one is rushing around
trying to make, make, make it
before they die.