Fisherman\u2019s Terminal<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
A memorial sits
\nnext to my favorite breakfast haunt.
\nIt\u2019s on a pier where rock songs blare
\nfrom a nearby speaker out to working boats,
\nmoored, and waiting for the season.
\nSeagulls are soaring, circling,
\nsearching for food bits and fish guts,
\ntheir cries, like homing pigeons
\nflying straight to my heart.
\nI have never been a sailor
\nbut I come here and
\nfingers following,
\ntouch the fish forever circling,
\ncaught in cast bronze,
\nand stand, a shadow,
\nin front of names I never knew
\nand still they touch me.
\nHopping sparrow, hoping for crumbs,
\nflies off in a hurry finding none.
\nCanadian geese, majestic, long-necked cruisers
\non green effluent
\nreach out and gingerly nibble insects and eel grass.
\nAcross the ship canal they\u2019ll be scrapping for french fries
\nbut here they float, regal.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Kristen Spexarth<\/a> lives in Seattle and writes about love, loss and the world around<\/a> as seen through the eyes of a gardener. She’s been writing a long time, has been published here and there and spends her free time working to help educate people about suicide prevention.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Fisherman\u2019s Terminal A memorial sits next to my favorite breakfast haunt. It\u2019s on a pier where rock songs blare from a nearby speaker out to working boats, moored, and waiting for the season. Seagulls are soaring, circling, searching for … Continue reading