it occurs to me that
nothing I ever saw or lived through belonged to me
although until this
moment i believed not only that, but even, so childishly, that i
created these things
the small weathered
shack at the corner of the road leading to Grandma's house with the
sign on it
“ Apple Orchard 2
km” bright red block letters on a large white square
for 30 years and maybe
more (before and after I travelled that road) and the field behind it
and the woods in the
near distance and the sky behind that and behind that, every dream I
had about the wide mysterious world in the back of my mind
imprinted over this
dirty reality
and none of it mine
not even Grandma's
bright, practical, red-lipsticked smile
so loving, so kind,
she, like a brightly coloured bodhisattva in heels and pantsuits
the fields of my
dreams, the taken for granted love of my childhood
offered to me like
gifts, passing by and through me like a wide and steady river
each drop offer by god
freely and with love
god tucks his child
into bed at night
and laughs kindly at her
innocent arrogance
and stands ready and
silent and still and glad for her slow coming awakening
