Emerald City

a poem and a little photo essay

Emerald City

On the walkway to my door, 
succulents glow green.
Tiny-budded-beacons against 
gray morning sky.

I love how pale gray-white
lets living things speak louder.
Tells Color; 
“Carve yourself into the cool marrow of the day!”

When I first came to Seattle,
all I saw was empty sky.
A wide, wollen blanket of cloud.
So different from Chicago’s driven steel
and Denver’s vaulted blue.

Years passed before my gaze 
lowered.
To the horizon, 
to the trees.

Emerald City, they call it.
And now I see:
green is a statement,
a signature of what is vital.

In dark winter, 
The moss goes neon,
flowering with tiny uprisings,
little flags of fruiting flame.
 
Moss worlds cling to granite.
Whole societies sweater the tree bark.
Silent colonies snuggle in the hollow of nurse logs.

Six-year-old Valerie
knows surely a nymph, a sprite!
A Faerie Queene will appear, if I hold myself: Right. Here.

The spruce tips in Spring
bright, waiving, and edible,
taste of citrus and sunlight.

Go ahead: Bite. 
A wash of pale watercolor green
slides across your tongue
the whispered flavor limebright.

All those years I stared upward, 
seeking sky,
while forests sighed and glissade,
a rain-soaked cacophony of hues;

Emerald, olive, fern, spruce, seafoam, celadon, and sage,
each a stage,
each a song,
each a nod to kneel down,
to see what is alive 
at 
my 
toes.