By Todd Campbell
I remember the thickets of grievance. How distance swelled into bitter silence. Colonnades of hemlock and fir solemn as an acropolis. But also how the fog loosened its grip. Sunlight streaming into the understory. The flex and sway of her stride. Mirth in her eyes. Then the face of the mountain, faceted into light and shadow. Burlap folds of copper bark burned black by some long forgotten fire. Tree after towering tree scarred at the base, yearning for sky.
Todd Campbell is a poet, speechwriter, and mosaic artist based in Seattle where he has lived for the past three decades. His poetry has appeared in Hobart, Pangyrus, Reed Magazine, The Shore, and elsewhere.