If I say, as the title of my site indicates, that I write in Cascadia, I must be sure I understand what that means.  I must want to be defined by a place so beautiful, but for what reason?  Why not say, simply, “Tom Writes” and let it be done with?  Is my own beauty, such as it is, not sufficient for the task – the creative and necessary task of my days?  I suppose it is justification enough to say that, as a writer, I require a muse. Cascadia is a stirring muse; she is a breathtaking representative of all the muses of my life – person, place, or word.  Let me then be old-fashioned and offer an Ode to Cascadia.

I looked down from a high tower
into your valleys, your mountain green meadows
wildflowers all abloom in abandon
and saw there my own self
wandering, infinitesimal, on a trail below.
A path wandered by the black bear,
by the ancestors who called the mountain home
named it, Ti’Sqaq – Who touches the sky.
The rivers and salmon were their friends –
the grandmothers and grandfathers
I cannot claim as my own.

I saw you walking there below the broken cloud layer
underneath the great trees
wide, so that you could not put your arms around them;
tall, so that you could scarce see their fringed tops –
they dwarfed your skinny frame.
You stopped beside a stream of fresh flowing water,
rock strewn freshets of clear and cold companionship-
splashed your face, dipped your hat,
sat to consume your meal.
You watched the stream rush past you,
knew it was on its way to the sea
but could not hear that distant roar –
crashing waves, billows curled, flung in windblown rain.
There the stream was lost
having found its way at last
to the place where you also were going.

Portland, Oregon – February 18, 2016

To see a picture of the tower I refer to, please see the photo, above.  To see a photo of the valley that forms the inspiration for this piece, please see my About page.  The trail is visible on that page.  You cannot, however, see me down there.

The flag in the upper right is the proposed emblem of Cascadia.