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Roadless Territory
H.K. Hummel This north-west-most point defines the limit:
the weather, without sufferance, has stunted the alder and fir.
Snow disappears into the sea. All along the way to get here,
roofs have collapsed: damp-heavy, moss-thick, they’ve given in
while skunk cabbage blooms in the shadowlands.
Now, at the brink of the continent, one more step
and I’d plunge forever, into the ice and chop.
Tankers come and go, navigating the deepest fathoms
of the channel. This is the right place; I will sink
my heaviest uncertainties into the alcoves of solitary lingcod,
I will turn around, face all that is still between us, and cross
the relentless rivers and cities, the remaining
fierce blue glaciers, and the melted spring meadows, dappled with
rust-red
robins, until you can feel my unshakeable yes.
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