Abridged in still uncertainty,
autumn swept up its weeping leaves.

“You’re the red leaves on the tree,”
paused, breathed in,
“and I’m the green.”

Of the fall, you thoughtfully said,
“one is dying; the other, dead.”

the last victim of polio;
she took up brush and canvas
and began a portfolio of one

her singular subject,
a sagging pear in the neighbor's yard,
threatening the cedar fence daily

and daily she would add strokes
sometimes only a vein on a blue Monday  
a leaf in a weekend, and a chunk
of trunk on a winded Wednesday

over summer greens she would
double dab fall's golds, yellows, or russet
if snow had begun to drift

seasons, years made their circles  
until her hands became stiff, her eyes
filled with film--then, she only sat by the palette,
silent, reverent to a lifelong friend  

when she passed, the work
was nearly done, missing only half a fiery sun,
yet the sky was a glorious blue
by chance the final hue

of an image altered  
a hundred score, by a hand
that would have done so
a thousand more

You are initials in the sand
under a warm June sky

Living and breathing

Eluding
the ocean
that tries to wash you away.

I was bumming
around Halifax town,
it was dusk, or there about.

Getting cold and
in need of shelter,
I entered an old abandon apartment
that was toasted to in the worst of ways.
All to make room for progress.

There scrawled on
what would have been
the living room wall...

The words written in blood,
the funniest thing,
it read...

'Dyslexic's of the World.. Untie'

I knew I was home for the night,
no big deal, if the bleeder came back
at least he had a sense of humour.

I see
   I read

I poke fun

I
plead

I
*****

I gripe

I run
   I fight

I look
   I listen

I keep
   to myself

I find
    what's
       missin'

is
     I'm plural