We lean in to learn your stories,
the ones you tell about mothers you miss,
or a wish you might have made one dawn when
wonder still held a certain promise
and rainbows could keep you captive.
Our backs are made of bark,
sometimes sheathed with only the brittle knots of moss,
other times wrapped in dog clothes—
striped stockings, woolen scarves or Crayola-colored dickies.
But we were here first,
us and the earth below the cobble stones you walk on.
We were here before the great fire and explosions,
when Yesler was floating logs to and from the pier.
We are Seattle's sacred sons
and years from now we will still be standing,
albeit bent from trying to
tell you the secrets of our long
and happy history.