Its twenty years since I left this land of emerald timber,
floating hawks and wild seacoast.
Twenty years away from washing surf and drifting fogbanks,
the tides dragging black cliffs under cold shipwrecked waters.
Now, redwoods are taller and preschoolers assemble
satellite technology inside far-off clean rooms.
The outer world where salmon spawn beside decayed sawmills
continues gathering dead cards and dealing fresh hands,
the all-encompassing present playing the same cosmic game
as when glowing planets began circling newborn suns,
or the ancients etched starbursts on flame-lit walls.
Watching tides and seasons appear through
drifting mist always inspires, but the true magic
defining this dilating place lies in the inner world,
the timeless invisible realm, because if you sit long enough
on an ocean bluff or remain calm inside a sunlit
tangled forest, the empty awareness which somehow
manifests the all that is, slowly appears as the deep
knowing far beyond tortured theories or angry philosophies.
Standing beside a frothing seashore, land and water
connect with animal and human.
Ridge above ridge rises beyond the little towns
or drops deep below the swirling incoming carrying
driftwood and fishing boats beneath steely spans holding
up the night sky filled by billions of unknown worlds
reaching the very limit of Being but ultimately
no more than things erupting from our own complete