s.t. as seen from the road, 2009

through an open window
the scent of fresh-cut grass
comes in as if thrown --
a burst of fragrance to bring me back
to that wide, green field
and all the time he took to cut it.
watching him from the road
still working in the setting sun,
i didn't know the things he'd seen
or the people that he'd been.
and how we can't presume to know a life
just by watching from the road.

certain mysteries

somewhere out west
you fell from a tree
like a talisman and were found
tucked into a pocket
your presence known, treasured

she knew you were the one
without looking twice
she chose you among many
and she'll wait for your mysteries
to unfold -- of those things, she is sure.

high level bridge

i am happy to have found a friend
who will ignore no trespassing signs
crawl under chain link
and balance on railway ties
on the high level bridge past midnight

because this is a night i never thought i'd have,
and it turned out to be one of the best ones yet.

average wednesday nights

it's just a darkness, like the sky
but reflecting sparks from stars
so far away they're probably dead already
now that we can see them
what's left of them
through all the lights we made to replace them

it's just a darkness, snaking
through the core of the city
luring wolves from the wild upstream --
one moment they're in wilderness
the next the james macdonald roars overhead
it must be such a shock

this inky darkness, home of beavers
and seagulls and the sewage we forgot
slides beneath us, so far beneath
and outward past our farthest sight
it curves and is lost to the wildness we left behind

looking out at this darkness, we dangle our legs
while cars fly by on the bridge below
just engine sounds and the comings and goings
of headlights, then tail lights, then only street lights
we're not sure where they're going, only
that they are oblivious to our presence up there
perched on railway ties, and the only parts of ourselves
visible are the bottoms of our shoes

it's better they don't know we're there
it's what separates us --
and the act of something wonderful --
from the mundane rigours of their average wednesday nights

some days

some days
it's more about feeling
like a writer
than actually being one

in the first place

it's not about giving up or giving in,
it's about being a human being.
it's about relationships, the reason
we are all still here on earth:
to be with one another.
but here we are killing each other
for things that were never really ours
in the first place.

a moment at moose lake

knee deep and donning
a pink life-saver around her waist
she squints in the sun
at her brother engaged in crocodile fights
and other imaginary feats.
she calls out to him
wants him to bring his crocodile
wants him to help her build something---
a new world in her knee-deep lakewater.
but he doesn't hear her; he is lost
in his own world, elaborately crafted.
a world he is becoming better and better
at creating all by himself.

a lightness

grey sky and i am a stone pressed into your palm

smooth, flat, blue-grey    a riverbed cast-off
a treasure     maybe     depending on the hand that holds me
but this palm    yours    holds me with a warmth i haven’t known
and i am ready to be thrown freely across water
not considering sinking     not sliding downwards through green
trailing air behind me past unconcerned plants & animals
to the bed of the world where i was born    worn smooth
no i never consider the sinking     only the part beforehand
just the sailing through air in sun-glinting light
skimming the surface
skipping ahead
always ahead
a lightness