If I could pick some sunshine, and hold it in my hands,
If I could ride a rainbow to far-off radiant lands,
If I could sprinkle star-dust upon a restless sea,
Then I could read the riddle of why you’ve chosen me.
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 –
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.
Tears trace my ruptures,
draining immature ideas,
congregating on your petals
where they christen you