This is not the garden yet, but a beginning, seventeen years worth work submitted to wills and whims of climate. Mid-April and the ground only now in view, shawls of snow lying about like dirty underwear after a particularly long night. The mud, the mud, it’s all mud. Who knows what survives? One thing for…
Month: April 2018
On the Topic of Fishing*
Miss Manners is strangely quiet on the topic of fishing; she sits in meditation on the point where necessity goes to the highest bidder. All Life is sacred, her granny taught; so the fish is sacred as is the worm, as is her own belly, engine house of her soul. How to honour all this?…
Day 11: Future
inner child, sit down listen to the elder we want to become: a body made strong movement by movement through years of conscious worship of this miracle temple loaned to our soul a mind ever bolder movement by movement freer to fly as compelled by songs who want to be born humming at the door…
Eyes
heart sinks as wisdom wells up memories stretch, time grows short if, in middle years, we grow another head to watch our back trail, let those new eyes see clearly, the thread that transforms mistake, instinctive thrash, one true brave choice, all of it, into a dance that holds steady; so the forward eyes, even…
The Ballad of Banaabekwe and Her Gulls
What diplomacy today can bring to the rescue mice fit to chew through plastic nooses carelessly left to wind around the bleeding necks and throats of sea elephants? You don’t hear that fable, now, do you? – Don Perkins 1. Banaabekwe, at her loom of seagrass slowly, in dappled morning sun, weaves stories for her…
As If We Believe in the Light
April is ugly in April in Edmonton but swans ripple high overhead and we lift up our eyes to their arrows as if we believe in warm wind it is grit brown and slouched but the crouching sun gains day by day and we track it home over the river as if we believe in…
Secrets
clam nestled in sand will not yield, there is no revolving beyond sun sparks cloud edge low, between mountain and sea running silvered under early blue seething, top to bottom storied beyond our reading slaves, liars, murders, cheats underpin glass towers glinting now, at anchor lights winking back from their smug harbour …
Pacific Rim
Spring, training our eyes on the blues of Coal Harbour, rife with wind we rest, cupped in a moment. How the Salish Sea has changed and still beneath wave and pavement thrums a heart connected to trade seasoned by years of muscling voyage anchored in exuberance – this cloth, this metal, this animal wealth…
Prairiepomes 