Stately women call 
from the forest,
beckon me

to waiting wombs,
gentle angels swaying in morning wind.
Pines scatter needles 
in salal, cedar twists 
toward the ocean,

her bows reaching
to touch 
rhododendron.
She, rare,
satin, cool in red garb 

laced with orange
she steps onto my path.
Her of many names 

I call Madrona.
Love me 
in return.