At a Minute-Per-Day

April 20 2019

On a good day

with little traffic

and green succeeding green

as if I'd slipped something to the maitre d'

and he had waved me on through

with a nod and a sweep of the hand.

Ushering me north

20 minutes, door-to-door.

Driving into the past

at the speed of a day for every minute,

like watching time as it recedes

in the rear-view mirror.

Passing from nascent spring

into winter's dregs.

The heavy snow

is coarse and granular,

its eroded edge

like some moth-eaten garment

that was put away soiled and wet.

And where the lawn ends

the sun, gathering strength

has exposed a thin irregular strip

of dead brown grass

and sodden earth.

The eaves are dripping,

and a pungent whiff of spring

complicates the air,

as the soil stirs to life

and matter decomposes

and the heavy frost recedes.

Returning overnight

like a unwelcome guest

reluctant to leave.

On this height of land,

20 minutes north

of majestic Superior

and the city heat that clings to its shores,

I am a time traveller

on a gravel road.

Winter has dug itself in

and it will take all of early spring

to pry the land free.

Only to return next fall

too soon, as usual.

When 30 minutes south

down an icy road, past leafless trees

the city will still be dressed

in its autumn splendour.

Interminable

April 9 2019

Winter hangs on,

the grim sky

the bone-damp chill.

Rain turning to snow,

a glimpse of sun

snuffed-out by overcast.

Spring is the season of life,

but winter reminds us

of the life force;

how persistence is everything

and how hard it is to kill.

Each cell

in its death grip

hanging desperately on,

the brain, self-aware

racing frantically.

Try finishing a man

with a machete, he said

and you will understand.

So even this dismal season

will not relent,

as if cold begets cold

and the sun were receding.

As if a snowball earth

had lost its heat,

its molten core stilled

its surface locked in ice.

But none of this is true,

and as the planet turns

and the days lengthen

and the sun ascends the sky

another spring is certain.

It comes later every year.

Or perhaps this is age

and a trick of perception,

so that winter seems never-ending

and spring a cruel temptress

egging us on.

Thinking back, I think there were 3 things that subconsciously conspired in the creation of this poem.

Winter is dragging on well into April, and this strikes me as unusually late. But then I remember I thought this last year, as well, and it probably wasn't much different. For some reason, we seem hold to some concept of “normal” weather that is no such thing. And even as time goes faster as I get older, does age make it feel as if winters are longer, and summers shorter?

It is the 25 year anniversary of the Rwandan genocide, and I recently heard a radio interview with Romeo Dallaire, the Canadian general who was in charge of the undermanned and under-equipped UN peacekeeping forces there. Michael Enright quoted Dallaire from one of his books, where he said (I am paraphrasing): “It's very hard work to kill someone with a machete.” I felt a literal chill, hearing this. But it's true. Not just the bluntness of this horrible instrument, but the life force of any living thing, grimly clinging to life despite the gravest of injury. So in the poem, a personified winter also won't let go.

And finally, I just put down a beautifully written piece from the latest New Yorker by Anne Boyer (What Cancer Takes Away – April 8 2019; https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2019/04/15/what-cancer-takes-away). I think this is what led me to put an incidental seasonal observation into such stark terms of life and death.

Btw, there was a phase in earth's ancient geological history in which it was, indeed, a snowball planet. You can read about the Snowball Earth hypothesis here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Snowball_Earth .

Silence

April 3 2019

This silence feels more like a presence

than the absence of sound.

Because it is emptiness

we cannot abide,

our nervous energy spilling out

to fill the unbearable voids.

How the restless brain confabulates

in its dark noiseless skull.

And how we link effect and cause,

connect the dots

no matter what.

The high-pitched buzz

as the noise-injured ear

strains to hear.

The dead we swear we saw

in the grief of sudden loss.

The hollow

in the double bed

that keeps you up at night;

in fitful dreams

the touch you miss

as sleep slips in and out.

It's as if the silence here

had mass and dimension,

hovering over the forest

like a watchful presence

in the dark stillness of night.

As if the blackness between the trees

had absorbed all sound,

leaving only me

to disturb the precious peace.

Except silence is never complete.

A leaf rustling

an owl's muffled wings.

Hot blood

rushing past my ears

as my heart beats louder and louder.

And my lungs

rasping in and out

in long deep breaths.

Because among the living

there is no escape from sound.

The sturm und drang of nature

cacophony of man.

The deaf, who sense vibration,

as well as those who listen poorly

or only to themselves.

Even the dead

who once shouted, laughed, and cried

reverberate still;

because energy is conserved,

and their voices somehow survive

however unrecognizable.

The Lived-In Home

March 29 2019

The shoes by the door

seem unnaturally still

as if arrested mid-stride,

just as they were

when they were dropped

kicked-off

toppled on their sides.

Not regimented

in primly matched pairs

as if there was virtue in order,

but the cheerful neglect

that wordlessly says

we have our priorities straight.

You cross the threshold

and pass from the chill of dusk

to the warmth of home.

Especially in spring,

the season of sudden blizzards

and freshly thawing mud.

Where the winter boots still slump

like battle-weary soldiers,

crumpled uppers, salt-stained and scuffed,

along with gumboots and runners

laces undone.

Shoestrings soaking

in puddles of melt.

Our footwear ages

in step with us.

Hard to believe

that a thing so unique

could have come from the factory

in exactly matched pairs,

now, as idiosyncratic in their wear

as we are.

The cluttered hallway inside the front door

is an obstacle course,

the welcoming chaos

of the lived-in home.

Each pair

proclaiming its story

in its battered upper

and the wear of its tread,

from the his-and-her boots

to the toddler's sneaker

so unbearably cute.

And your favourite pair of walking shoes

in supple leather, with the cloud-like sole,

reliably resting

in a heap on the floor,

just as you left them

ready to go.