Seven pines greet me as I arrive
at Woeber House, 1183 Lanny Lane
in Squaw Valley where poets gather
summer berries— black, red, and blue
to relish juices of jewel that nourished
winter warriors three decades ago dashing
down these slopes skiing breathless

for Olympic gold— those five interlinked
rings like ripened grapes ready for harvest,
Apollonian nectar for muses to inspire us
with gifts of song. Our workshop leaders:
Hass, Hillman, Kinnell, Olds—
four spirit guides from the four directions—
Aces of swords, cups, pentacles, and wands

encourage us to write boldly, truthfully
to let beauty flow through breaking new grounds
as a child treads on lake of ice to catch the wild
swan before its flight north. Now Blake reminds
me why he ceased to praise the muses upon
finding that they were the daughters of Memory,
so let's not resurrect past storehouses of

bone dusts and yellow parchments but dare to
soar shamelessly into black grotto of night
to drink red veins of fire in ocean expanse
of blue as seven Big Dipper stars pour
songs of the Pleiades on these seven pines
whose flute-needles whistle and bell-cones
ring seven rainbow wonders of this world.


                — Peter Y. Chou
                     Squaw Valley, 7-9-1989