Cascade Love Song

On the west side of the mountain where the rhododendrons grow
I found my love a trillium with roots deep in the snow.
On the east side of the mountain where the sagebrush spreads so wide
I brought my love a pony with a chestnut-spotted hide.
The ponderosa groves in spring with ragged-robin thick
stood tall and grave and waved us past on US 26.

On the west side of the mountain where the hemlocks hang so dark
We dressed in rhododendron leaves and hats of willow bark.
On the east side of the mountain where the dust is alkali
We threw away our leafy garb and wandered clad in sky.
Jackrabbits, pronghorn antelope and prairie sage-hen chicks
stood watch among the meadows along US 26.

But summer turns and fire burns and west and east alike
will dry to brown and hunker down, the flowers sere and dead
and sage and rhododendron know the fear of lightning-strike
and you and I will watch the sky for smoke and thunderheads.
It’s not a kindly season that brings flames all racing quick
through wood and grass and underbrush on US 26.

So walk with me a little further in the green of spring
and watch the west side shake the snow and start its blossoming
and watch the east side greet the sun, the frozen earth reborn
while I and you pass lightly through the wild roses’ thorns.
When summer drought descends on us, we’ll leave the drying ricks
and head out towards the foggy coast on US 26.


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