March has gotten past me with very little writing done. Jumping back into writing something, anything with HA’s geography prompt at dVerse.
Critique welcomed. I’m not thrilled with this one, but I see some light peeking through. (Note, playing with line breaks.)
A Spell For The Duwamish
Rolling rock and logs down Yesler Street, past working ladies,
skidding old cedars towards San Francisco,
last supplies sending lonely men cold to Alaska,
we took trees from Seattle.
When horses drowned in pools of mud and burnt timber,
when the tides backed up our sewers, surging up
with smells unspeakable, after the fire,
we flattened the hills.
Beacon hill became Pioneer Square sludge,
a throne to commerce and unsewaged shoes. We would raise
street levels a full thirty-five feet, build retaining walls,
turn Elliot Bay into city blocks, fill in the marsh.
Ladders were placed at the corners so that ladies
in nine-yard dresses could window shop, up street,
We mercantile alchemists, we ground cobalt into sand,
fired sand into glass, sunk glass into concrete:
enchanting light, we built windows into the ground.
An oxidation of sky and hermetics:
colbalt skews blue with sun, our glass turned dark.
Now a tourist curiosity, we may safely walk the underground:
a short mile learning coy history.
The seamstresses of Seattle didn’t sew.
The Duwamish is forty percent shorter than in 1850,
straighter, too. Slip docks and Superfund sites,
our water majicks spun out of control.
Today we cut glass into our sidewalks again,
lighting the old unders where the river still flows:
plants will grow in our estuary,
and salmon can spawn again.