winter

They are paving the north field

Where we lay in each other arms last fall among the wildflowers

I told you then, this beauty won’t be here forever

So let's enjoy it

Now the flowers are gone

And so are you

All beautiful things are fleeting

Though they seem eternal under the autumn sun

The Greenway

down the greenway
narrow strip of emerald
between concrete and dirty snow
mysteriously free of garbage
now that i think of it
except at the very end
where two metal fences meet
bits of concrete strewn like a giant
flinging stones
bottles and pages and trinkets
all blown into the corner
under the scotch pines
i'm sitting on a broken cinder block
watching a black cat
watching me
from the other side of the barbed wire fence
among the faded shipping containers
beside the growing tower
under the swing of the cranes
sweeping the grey sky

it might be raining
a little
when it's windy a white tarp
blows through an open window in the tower
like a curtain in a lady's dressing room
and soothes the neuronal firing
that is the mind i carry

the mind that
moves quickly like the cat
running as I move towards it
moves steadily
in the wind like the tarp curtain
spits like the rain
little piercing touches
is dirty like the edge of the fences where
mud meets garbage

still
i sit
waiting
for motion to cease
and stillness
to return

perhaps not today
back down the greenway
i carry god with me

turf farm

a truck was pulling out of the rec centre this morning
on the side in large letters was printed
"strathroy turf farm"

oh! what a dream!
a thousand acres of lawn
and nothing else
lush and thick and emerald
under a blue clear bowl of sky

children in bright colours run with wild joy
carrying pails and baseball bats and dolls
shrieking, bare-footed

moving always towards the

infinite blue green horizon

history

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

The Return

Poetry again
because of trees

Willa and Rose Together

WILLA, a gently elegant woman in her late 80s, whose smile makes everyone feel like a beloved child

ROSE, a slightly confused woman in her early 90s, who looks like a Muppet with a large smile and big blue eyes. She has on a sweater with a large bluebird on it to which she bears a striking resemblance.

DAY, INT.

Looking into an elevator. A sign next to the elevator reads “Cheery Skies Retirement Community.” Inside the elevator, Willa is standing patiently behind Rose's wheelchair, her hands delicately but firmly wrapped around the push handles. Rose is sitting like an aged Buddha in her chair, eyes fixed upon the middle distance.

The elevator door slides quietly into place. The women stand quietly until the elevator opens at the third floor. Willa pushes the wheelchair out of the car.

W: Rose, where is your room?

R: It is room 307.

Willa pushes Rose towards her room.

As they move along the hall -

R: [quietly, decidedly, almost seeming to talk to herself] First the pillar, go around the pillar. Yes. Now down this way. Past Eileen's room. Yes. Now past Marie's. Yes. Here we are.

At the door of Rose's suite.

Rose smiles broadly with her lips together and wrinkles at the corner of her eyes. Tiny beads of sweat are forming at her hairline. Rose is also smiling.

Willa comes around the side of the wheelchair and opens the heavy door to Rose's suite. The corridor is silent and empty.

Willa begins to pull Rose out of her chair. Some physical confusion arises.

Willa leans forward, working at moving the foot pads of the chair up so Rose can move forward and out. Willa is also trying to hold Rose up, and keep the door open. Willa's 88 year old back shakily is bridging the distance between these activities.

R: [reassuringly, speaking slowly and steadily] Yes. I'm getting out of the chair. Yes. I'm out. I have my cane right here. You have me. I'm standing. Yes. Out of the chair!

The two women are standing, shakily, smiling at each other, holding each others hands, both breathing a little more deeply. Rose is steadying herself and Willa is catching her breath.

The journey towards the recliner begins. Willa shifts around to take Rose by the arm, and Rose presses her cane onto the floor and leans on it a little. Taking careful steps, the women navigate Rose's suite.

[The following conversation takes place in slow, measured, decided tones.]

R: Into the suite. Yes.

W: To the easy chair?

R: Yes. The easy chair, that's where we're going.

W: It's right there.

R: Yes it is. That's where we want to be!

W: A easy chair is a good place to be going to!

A few more paces and Rose is safely down in the wide blue chair. She is surrounded by the objects of sitting life, her Jumble puzzles, magnifying glass, TUMs, TV remote, hand lotion and other particulars. Willa stands back and smiles beatifically.

W: My name is Willa.

R: My name is Rose.

W: Willa and Rose. Two good, short names. Two simple names.

R: Yes.

W: That was a struggle. I didn't think I would make it!

R: It was a struggle, yes – and we made it!

W: We did!

R: I'm very comfortable now.

W: Good [still a little breathless]

R: Would you like to sit?

W: No, but thank you. I'll head back to my room now. Have a good day, Rose.

R: Oh, yes, you too, Willa, have a good day!

Willa exits.

R:Yes. It is a good day. Yes.

END

Ecologies everywhere

There is no such thing as an object.