In the beginning was the Word, and the word was a Fort,
a peninsula, open to the sea.
Pilgrims seeking vistas and space
scale battlements, walk gunnery lines,
marvel at the madrona, her red skins shining.
We climb steps for inlet and strait,
whitecaps, a lighthouse on the point.
Wandering trails.
Reading verses in the vault.
Looking west to spy a mountain range
we didn’t know was there.
In a place designed for war
we find peace.
(A salute to all veterans, especially my father — and all those who served at Fort Worden.)