Paddling up the Kenai,
Traipsing through Denali’s majestic peaks,
Then on past Fairbanks’ boundaries,
He, toward the Arctic Circle, seeks….
Dali sheep and grizzlies, a moose and grey wolf, too
All greet him on his northern path,
Strewn with frost heaves swollen mounds.
Apollo sits in wonderment of yet another soul
Looking for salvation in the northern lights and gold
Of Alaskan spruce and tundra, glacial water running cold.
“Swim with all your might,” he shouts to the Sockeye, Coho, Pink
“Each day may be your last,” as fishers line the brink
Then on past Chatanika, to question, no, to think.
The further north he travels in a search to find the truth
The further more away he moves from discovering what he knew:
A million miles of Arctic cold or ribboned skies of blue
Mean nothing in eternal vastness, nothing. Nothing new.
“So, follow me to Whittier, see the crystal hues,
of deep harbor lanes and rugged men, who dream of
warmer sloughs,” he looks at them then looks around
And ups the ante still. “Pack all your things, return with me,”
To the cabin in Synecdoche–I’ve learned a thing or two.
Give me your heart, I’ll repay in part with tales of Arctic wanderings,”
Sure they bit and off they went hook, line, and sinker. Fools.