To the Valley Beneath Beacon Rock

If we’re waiting east of Eden,
Then heading west just makes good sense.
There, the days of August evens

Lie gentle on a valley fenced
By Beacon Rock upon one side,
Rising up from forests dense

With spruce and fir and maple’s pride-
Ful spreading limbs and deep green leaves,
And to the north a river glides.

Columbia, she flows and weaves
And waters that broad valley floor.
Upon her banks, that land conceives

Thick golden grass, and something more:
Hedges filled with summer berries
Line the paths that we explore.

We pluck what we can eat or carry
Then leave them for the hills and dips
Where finches sing their wild hymnaries.

As into brambled nooks they slip.
One thorny hedge in this far dell
Is filled with rounded green rosehips.

I note them by their shape and smell
Until a finch lifts up and wings her
Way to a tree where apples swell.

We slowly walk, wishing to linger
In this place of summer fruits,
Like Adam reaching for God’s finger

Before we take our eastward route.
My home’s in exile, yet I still
Find in that memory a root

From which my dreams, my songs, my will,
When summer’s gone, winter’s commenced,
Will grow until my hope’s fulfilled.

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