Deforestation

pineshine.jpg

 

Can’t see the forest

for the family

trees, these black and blue

recessive genes; if I

fall in the shadows,

will anyone hear?

Underneath

peeling.jpg

 

Excruciating, this exfoliation,

this blistering in the heat

of battle.

Defenceless,

skin peels,

flayed offal,

diseased dandruff

powdering slumped

shoulders.

Let it go.

Let it

fall

kissed

by

gravity,

one with

the grave. For

unless dead skin cells

are scrubbed off –

loofah of life –

regeneration

cannot build life,

caress fresh complexion

with rosebuds.

This is but the

paring,

the shucking of

detritus. Your real and true

lie

underneath…

 

Winter Waiting

potentillabranch

Small felt smaller still after

being buried alive, wrapped

Egyptian style in layers

bred of cold desperation.

*

Much energy was wasted

fuming, whining, recounting

tales of those whose days were filled

with blue skies and toes in sand,

Paradise lost; squirming drove

Small deeper into her grave,

tied icy anchors to hopes

that hell had frozen over.

*

Large watched in compassionate

silence. Grieving. Waiting for

Small’s heart to thaw. He sent his

love in diamonds, reflective

prisms in hues carved by age-

old mysteries into shards

of brilliance, setting each stone

with a jeweller’s practised eye,

glowing treasures at her throat.

*

He waits still. Small sags, sulky,

snow-blind. But patience lives where

love glitters; Large wipes her tears

with rainbows, crowns her mornings

with gentle soliloquies

cooed by mourning doves,

harnessing the Chinook winds

to end her hibernation.

The Bold and the Beautiful

rudbeckia bud

 

I view you with scorn.

Pitiful, I label. Naive beyond belief.

Do you not feel it in your bones,

this Frost creeping, cadaverous

mongrel, seeking your flesh?

No one who knows what

Saskatchewan winter can accomplish

would proffer innocent bud,

sacrificial lamb to ego’s altar.

Or do you know exactly what you offer?

Scorn spars with Pity,

until a third enters the ring –

Disbelief.

Do you bloom in spite, or to spite?

Death may just be the mother of

all necessary re-invention,

the Holy Grail to this Holocaust.

I see.

I know.

Tears trace my ruptures,

draining immature ideas,

congregating on your petals

where they christen you

Bold.

 

 

The Road Not Taken

wateryroad.jpg

I wish this was

water under the bridge –

instead,

your choices are a constant drip,

a flood of tears,

a deluge

forcing me to back-track,

take a detour,

set up pylons

where a simple drain should suffice.

We’ve been down this one before.

Perhaps

next time,

we could try

the road not taken?

Burned Bridges

cosmos brittle

She smiles – but, life having burned the bridge of her nose,

it no longer has a means to travel from her lips to her eyes.

“I hate him,” she says,

in the same tone she used to order her decaf latte,

taking a sip

and trying not to spill

on the perfectly white tablecloth.