If we bought
the one bedroom two storey
converted family chapel
in vesuvius bay british columbia
we could play bocce ball in the ferry terminal parking lot.
We could buy snow-cones at the roadside store.
I assume that they sell those,
and if they don’t, then to hell with them -
we’ll open up a snow-cone stand and make millions.
We could take long walks
through the gnarled trees
in the forest, then shorter walks
on the hard shores of the bay,
then shorter walks
along the road’s soft shoulder,
then still shorter walks in the yard,
and we could look out the window
over the hedge, and out at the water
when my limbs start to shake
and my mind begins to wander
and we’d turn,
smile softly at each other,
then look away -
and they could bury me
quietly, in the dirt
under the arbutus tree,
behind the vesuvius chapel.
Untitled (Sumac Leaves)
of a sumac
plant are like
all the way down.
They are found in
the stands by the
fields, they envelop
hills, and they
periphery of my dreams. In the fall,
as red as
infernos, and they
light Ontario on fire
with their colour.
I have seen them
in my darker days,
and they have
Paradise Valley Days (Lost in the Woods)
My friends all have nicknames like
“Owl” or “Juniper”. And so do I,
I assume. The stream runs down
hill through the hard lichen and
pine brush - only time and fate
know where on earth she’s headed.
As for me, I stay and wait on
winds for any trace of perfection,
‘cause one day I’d like to be
like my hero, “Forget-Me-Not”
and be glorious, beautiful and still.
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