The sky could not be bluer
turquoise and ocean and bright summer day
captured on the snow piled like icing on the trees,
but on the horizon
a wall of charcoal grey
hints at a blizzard on its way.
I watch through the window and hope
I’m home before it hits.
You don’t even look like
the person I used to know, any more
I don’t know what’s happened.
Did you get taller somehow?
Ah
No.
We don’t do that
when we’re this age.
I believed me
when I told myself I couldn’t do it.
I believed me
when I told myself nothing could be done.
I believed me
when I told myself nothing could change.
I believed me,
but I was wrong.
How often
does our prayer to
accept the things that cannot change
become an excuse for complacency?
How often
do we turn away from the possible
just because it’s difficult?
How often
to we tell ourselves ‘it’s always been’
and fail to see that something else could be?
How often
do we rail against those
who gentle encourage change when
they demonstrate another way?
How often
do we shout our certainty
when we should listen and see
wider horizons of possibility?
Within old skin
undoing
rebuilding
becoming
rebounding
safe growing places
bright glowing spaces
this microcosm populated
by homunculi
stitching new skin.
The vehicles wind along the highway
a immobile caterpillar
stalled by a moment
when the physics of motion, energy, and force
spun unfortunates into each other’s path
with a crash
that froze the goings
and made everyone in the long line
contemplate mortality.
.
.
.
The stretch of the TransCanada Highway between Sicamous and Salmon Arm is a frequent site of accidents. I usually count on having to detour from work 3 times each winter. Today was the third, and there are 2 months of winter left. Our thoughts are with those who were involved in the accident, and medi-vacced out.
Once,
I’d count down days to him.
My pounding would steal my breath at
the thought of him.
I observe my obsession from a distance
laughing at my absurdity,
thankful to have exorcised such ghosts.
.
Now,
thinking I’m seeing her soon
illuminates my being
with not-so-secret joy.
I acknowledge my obsession
in a collectitivity of compatriots
thankful for opportunities
to rub against greatness.
The temperature has soared;
crowds gather on the lake
for another hot summer day,
but early this morning
I heard the geese leaving,
portents of autumn on the wind.
I have been walking in a fog
My mind blurred at the edges,
thoughts soft as cirrocumulus
passing above on a summer day.
Nothing feels important enough
to rise from the stupor. My pilot light,
that creative spark is not burning
strongly enough to penetrate the haze.
Summer’s changing shape
has consequences.
Shawn L. Bird 