indian paintbrush II

it's not what i expected
from a man on a hiking trip
just him and his dog
out there in the wilderness

i expected something solid
a branch, maybe, or a rock
something not easily broken
that can be jammed under gear

i never expected
something so delicate
something precious and precarious
kept bright and alive

and it sits on the desk
at the back of the cafe
revived by water from a nalgene
red petals dewy and firm

it is looking for the sun
craning its stem for some light
misplaced but so intact    so breathtaking
so perfectly preserved by this man and his dog

it is waiting for a poem to come
waiting for me to remember it
and i can't do it justice
because it's not what i expected

indian paintbrush

when you grew on the hills in abundance

they used you as a supplement

to complement leafy greens

make their hair shiny

take away the aches and pains

of nomadic upbringings    the soreness of wandering

and now

and now your uses are so few

we've got salad dressings

shampoos and aspirin

houses carefully furnished with all of the comforts

of a society based on wants

and now

and now the purpose of your life

little bloom    little sprig

is to simply be looked at

enjoyed for your vibrance    your God-made evidence

your softness and possible danger

blooming in ditches next to roads we've paved

looking up at the sun while i look at you

and wonder where you've been

all the changes you've seen

a birthday lunch

delarisse and the brightest sun

on a patio in the town where we grew up

fresh sandwiches and hot coffees

sunglasses pushed up into our hair

talking is easy, we've been doing it for years

but i feel older, now, and a little removed

from the things that used to bind us together

you're a little removed as well

we're sliding slowly into our own worlds, own truths

and the things that were once so important

to all of us, an equal importance

are sliding further away

tell me you'll still meet me for lunch on a tuesday

still sit across from me and know who i am

more than anyone else ever has

tell me all our truths will still exist, somehow

together

helsar and sweet blue

somebody worked really hard for this
put their hands into the earth
and placed within it a precious gift

and i've promised to do the best i can
with what i've been given

that two-fifty treasure ----

a life's work.

barista disasters

under the stress of the situation
you could see how i might react
to making two mistakes in a row,
to messing up the same thing twice.
you'd cry, too, wouldn't you?

okay, i've been a little manic these days,
though all i've been asked to do
is dose grinds, tamp, count, steam, pour,
repeat
repeat
repeat.

and i guess my mind's been elsewhere;
a place that puts me right on the edge
of an almost-sanity that i'm reaching for
and so very nearly grasping.  so close
i want to cry when i end up catching nothing.

so you could see how two drinks
improperly made, thrown out, redone
would make the difference between happiness
and something altogether disastrous.

planning

room after room after
room trying to see it
trying to picture you and me
somewhere in the middle

a white dress
rings on our fingers

my hand in your hand

sunday mornings, moose lake

no time for anything
not even for wonderfull
in the sun on the deck

it's always the worst part
the cleaning up and packing in
and loading cars in the gravel driveway

the driving away
through the best air yet
and the lake fading in the rear view mirror

perfect morning

waking to the perfect morning
the sky scrubbed clean and pale
with nothing to hide the sun
and the glassiest stretch of water
calling me out      out      out            out

the empty well

am i peering down into an empty well
or am i really inside of it, peering upwards?
past the damp, stony emptiness and a lack of words
to the biggest, bluest sky in the whole world ------
if i had to choose, i'd rather be up above
sending buckets down      waiting for water.

through pines

standing on a path in northern alberta
the thick forest of birch and poplar and saskatoons
all white and fresh green refracting sunlight
gives up its thick understory    gives way
to craggy jack pine trunks    limbs growing
only upward    the forest floor a cushion
of needles and moss    a welcome pathway
to secret places inhabited by wild creatures

in this forest you can see so far
past dark jack pine interruptions
far enough to see a deer escaping
fifty yards away or more
far enough    even     for me to run
without getting lost

unspeakable beauty

the road will be blocked
and the bridge will be closed
and you'll be somewhere across town
somewhere far away from me
i'll be able to see the explosions from my house
maybe i'll climb onto the roof
or just wander out into the closed street
among revellers and passersby
and watch the colours in the sky
mark the birth of our nation
and i'll wish your hand were in mine
and i'll long to see those colours light up your face
upturned
towards manmade miracles
an unspeakable beauty