love this much

Is it the quiet way
the little yellow leaves
on the almost bare tree blow?

Or how the streetlight
stares a spotlight
at the spidery arms
of this hovering, hunching tree?

What brings you
to love this much

as if this world is a picture
someone painted
just for you?

Tree

Is there anything more magnificent
than the bare-branched tree
that stands
in the thundering windstorm
and shakes?

Like this one,
how it bends
but doesn't break,
how it digs its roots deep,
how it extends its bony arms.
How it fits itself
just so
into the deep, green forest.

Can you feel how it is
at once
alone
and still a part
of everything?

There's a story about a girl who saves a village with her singing

Everyone in her village is disappearing.
She starts to sing
and discovers it stops the disappearing,
so she keeps singing.

Soon she knocks on all the people’s doors to sing to them,
and they reappear
and then there are more
until the town is alive again.

I dream one night it’s true
and I'm her.

But my family is gone and they won't come back
no matter how much I sing.

The moment starts to melt

and uncover its soft white roots
and buried layers
of crimson soot
and soil.
The magic
underneath

you never saw.

First, there was the moment you couldn’t forget

even when you tried,
when your insides jumped and scurried,
which was enough. It was just
another hand
on yours, unfolding
a question
you’d never thought to ask.

It wasn’t long
before your heart

burst open—

it was a wild, red fire,
pulsing and beating, like the heart of bird
nestled
in the palm of your hand.

Memory 1

Dim kitchen light,
my mother’s lap
and the deep blue walls
around us.

The way my knees
tucked perfectly over hers
like two limbs swung
over top of a tree branch.

River

You twist down forever miles of country field,
call every town you touch your home.

Your waters seep through roots
that splay out under houses and acres
where memories are kept.

Each year, pieces pile up on your bed:
words from the neighbours' buried stories.
They've turned to dirt from years underground.

Great River, Mighty River, cascade
of memories.

The people don't remember,
but the houses that line your path
are watermarked
with the names
of all their stories.

Wedding photo

Your mother’s two hands buckle at her front
like a strapped stone. You curl
your body away like smoke,
melt into his. You don’t know
what to call this feeling-
after-feeling so you say it’s love.

Like a secret set of wings.
No one knows if it’s really there.

Migration

Not the fists he holds tightly at his sides,
not his puffed-out chest bracing wind
or the mast that’s planted behind you both.

You’ll try, but
none of it—not even your arm
slid through his—
will be enough
to stop
this sensation
of falling.

Coil, then unravelling

It’s early morning. Sticky summer air
pokes through window-screen holes
onto your curled-up body
like sun rays on a little spore.

Dad pokes his head in
to see if you’re up. You bound
out of bed, uncurl, follow him, full of sweaty, summer dreams,
full of thick sleep.

You’ll get older and keep doing this.

This life of yours, windblown,
will always be like a piece of string

coiling, then unravelling in the wind.

Suitcase, knapsack, handbag, box: what you put things in.
Luggage: what you take with you.

This is how the world is made

After supper, run down patio steps
to where your backyard ends
and the wild forest starts. The air
is thin and cool.

Animals dart their sparkling eyes
at you like bright, shooting fires.
Black walnuts
and apples sit
scattered at the trees’ feet.

Touch them.
Their dried-up cores
are still breathing.

Photo paper

We’ll all think the music’s still playing after we go
and we’ll keep singing.
My mother’s smile,
too, will be like a feather she's holding.
It will fall away softly.
We’ll hardly notice.

Sometimes, you wants your life

To be like you remember it in this picture
of you: starched white dress, socked feet on hot grass.

You make the picture a place, you forget
it’s just a picture. Not
any more a thing
than a locket
in the shape of a heart.


I think you can look at a photo long enough that the moment changes in your mind. I think you can also do this without a photo.