on guard
in these woods
I scan between
upright trunks like barcodes
looking for big blocks
of wild flesh
wondering
what might be
around the corner
for us all
not shopping
not shopping
almost a month
since I set foot in a store
probably the longest time in my life
except maybe college
(but I don’t think so –
College and Variety
Luigi’s and the Bookstore
Nothing but the Blues and Shaw’s
got a little of me here and there)
one month of gazing at the woods:
a terrible way to get better
the sleeping fox
the sleeping fox
when the horizon
is too filled with disaster
I train my internal eye
on the image of a sleeping fox
we watched him climb
the hill behind our house
on a day when
most of our world had melted
there in the warm
russet-brown of the pine duff
he circled then curled,
a fiery fluff of warm fur
lit by early spring sunshine
he knew nothing of our worries
and simply slept sound
and I watched in thanks
for the proof of a being
who could still dream
simple safe dreams
limbs loose, mind at ease
shut
shut
these are the days of closing doors
cutting off connections
cordoning off wards
identifying and isolating
the smallest unit you hold dear
slide the pocket door into the void
close the border
abandon the gate
leave your post
wring your own hands and none other
don’t open the post
don’t shake on anything
we’re all going inside very dark spaces
sitting quietly
with only a small candle’s glow
learning slowly bitterly desperately
how rich life was
when anyone could barge in
and disturb our peace
triggers
triggers
the triggering subject:
the proximal cause
setting your pencil moving
putting words in your mouth
and a bee in your bonnet
the generated subject:
the image that emerges from the ache
the harm that won’t be undone
the pain that makes it all personal
the meaning to your being here now
with something to say
and a need to be heard
let me be brave enough
to line up all these daily triggers
sharp and dangerous as daggers
all the goings-on that pierce my consciousness
and follow each one a step further
uncovering the wound each tears wider
until my fingers can probe it
pack it with a poultice of runes
then hold my warm hand over it
til it heals well
snowsmoke
snowsmoke
in the white woods
veils of snowsmoke
descend like drapes
unfurling from conifer crowns
cascading with a flourish and fizz
that sets the whole atmosphere asparkle
heightens the drama
anywhere you look
a cloud of crystals
may breathe down your neck
the very next moment
magical shimmer
and cold uncomfortable reality –
that’s how it is these days –
you gotta find a way
to make room for both
a striking truth re mothering boys
a striking truth re mothering boys
after 12 years of mothering boys
I still don’t quite get it
we leave for a walk and I ask them
to leave their PVC pipes behind
let’s not whack things
let’s not be violent
let’s be quiet
and look for animals
they grumble, but do it for me
and within minutes they’re clutching
big brown blocks of icy snow
smashing them against each other
after one starts crying
I try again
let’s not beat on each other
let’s just walk
and see the world
the crying one protests,
requesting more abuse,
but we continue plodding along
until they both spy a mullein
at the same time –
a ramrod-straight perfect sword –
they both fall upon it at once
after much wrestling and wresting
they strike a deal
as to who can whack with it
I still have not learned
how much they need
to feel their own bodies
through the vibrations
of something else striking them
how their muscles need to be told
where they are in space
how they need to be sure
they exist right now
with the solid reassurance
only a good thwack will give
the realm of the everywhen
the realm of the everywhen
what exists in the everywhen
(by my faith):
compassion
energy
creativity
love
truth
transformation
these are the forces of the eternal now
the flows that one must align to
the vibrations that yield harmony
snow bombs
snow bombs
sometimes you hear the womp
of a pile of plush snow
plunging from the treetops
down onto a deep drift first
other times a curtain
of sifted snow waves across the sky
like a veil between the trees
every time I look for the chickaree
or chickadee who precipitated it
there’s nothing
it seems the work of snow spirits
walkers on the wind
beings keeping watch over us
who we can only know
by what else they move
snow ghosts sneezing up
soft clouds of hushed white debris
staying away
staying away
as long as we don’t meet
I’ll know it’s not my fault
(anything that might happen)
and how could I live
with having harmed you?
we all say these words
to everyone now
stay alone for all of you,
our loves who we most long
to wrap our arms around
to share breath together
(the Māori know)
makes us most alive
but I can’t risk
robbing you of yours
so we’ll stay alone in our little
forced-air windows
saying hello through flickering screens
where we can’t smell spring
together
