That’s how we meet. You won’t meet me halfway. I will see you somehow in the currents you heave at the sky to travel grey, and scatter before the Cascades. Continuing against the grain, I will catch your fresh scent, distinct in things like air-salted patches of salmonberries, pronounced and sweetened by deep-soaked duff, timeless, newborn and dying as the rivers you breath to your being, and I with them.
My steady pace will slow as I hear you: a rush meant to blend with the wind as I turn my ear to listen, to pick out your voice, natural and fragile as a heartbeat, grand and intangible as what you are.
Below that final overhang, which you carved in waiting, you break on the shore. You, the endless Pacific, unraveling me in your depth and moving me at your surface. Attracted at once by a song in your gale, and the rhythm in your swell, but drawn further without bearing to your endless horizon – a balm to uncertainty and the calluses on the soles of my patience, which I bore willingly to find you.
Someday, other currents could beckon. We’d give eachother up, and the only signs I’d remember would be the trees on the coast, naked at your face, limbs pointing back inland; but then, that drew me in, as did a lively, drenching cold, the tropic warmth you hide, and mystery the continents are shamed by.