today the raindrops are sharp,
fine needles injecting novocaine
into the back of my exposed skin,
my breath heavy
from running up the incline
as fast
as
i
can
to see if a wish came true.

and i reach the clearing.
gingerly i step onto a new bed
of yellow-green moss —
soft, springy, cushioning me
from what lies beneath —
and i stoop down,
let my fingertips feel
the gentleness within each tiny leaf
that absorbs the tears dripping down.

and so we finally meet again.
despite the ages that have passed
i still remember your voice
and its mirthful tones
telling me you wished to be reborn
as none other than moss
on the forest floor.

To this day I hide from my parents
the fact that I visit you —
a small trail,
nestled at the end of a street which meets
the view of evergreen mountains and pale waters
tinted by an afternoon glow.

They fear I'll be attacked
when I'm with you —
bears rushing up woody slopes
to tear my limbs apart
or perhaps a stranger shoving me onto sunlit moss,
his hand over my mouth
whilst chickadees sing sweetly
and the ferns sway
and the cedars stand stoically.

But I know you well —
you, with Christmas ornaments still hanging on a pine in March,
with the gift of wild blackberries in July,
with the tease of a water view in October
and the uncovering in December
as you strip off, slowly,
slowly,
the leaves on your deciduous trees.

"doctor,
after talking to a strange man
i began to get the following symptoms:
anxiety,
depressed mood,
chest pain,
loss of appetite,
obsessive-compulsive thought patterns.
i suffer from a loss of productivity ––"

and at that the doctor stirred.

now i take two a day,
pink and blue —
one to mellow
and the other
so i can say "hello"
when all other words
have flown away on the backs of lovebirds.

Vancouver was never prepared for snow
and I was never prepared for you.

to be sure, I salted the roads
fitted my thoughts with winter tires
and memorized the emergency codes
and sat myself by the fires

but here I am, stranded in my head
shivering from my imagination
into which you tread
god I need a vacation

but if I see tropical waters in their perfect blue
I’ll remember what we said
as jade-tinged waves crested and seagulls flew
and from paradise I’ll have fled

back to traffic jams and black ice
my face red from the cold
(or is it something else?  but I’d think twice
about having that thought told).

greenery, that entangled forest mess of autumn leaves
and fallen branches — the snapping, the crunch
but also muffled dampened rot
and the stagnating pool of rainwater
the treachery of muddied ground that gives way
underneath your weary feet (heels hurting in boots)

the smell of decay even as it promises new life —
that musk lingering in cold air
perfume of the ghosts
whose bodies could never hope
to decompose so sweetly.

The old man sits by the ocean, watches the waves crest.  Gnarled hands
caress a wooden flute.  He brings it to his lips cracked with age, plays
notes with consequence.

He hears no more.  He feels only the air whistling out, the vibrations
in his fingers that substitute for the sublime he once knew.  
It is a paler form of knowledge.  And so he resolves to teach,
to animate, to find eyes for unseen light.

He knows ripples, the movement of wind and water,
the shivering of cold and pleasure and
of someone moved — no, displaced, by sound.

He draws a crowd.  Lifegivers, he thinks, fertile minds
ripe for the planting.  And no two flowers that bloom
are the same.  He plays a song
whose notes spread as dandelion seed does —
flown, twirling, through the medium of air —
then taking root through the ears,
pushing into crevices,
unfurling green buds.

Time rattled your fair skin, carved its deep lines
Cruel sculptor, that unyielding artist's hand
Which stretched drying clay, which let expand
Improper shapes with curves that undermined
A knife was taken to cheekbones' incline
Against gravity, jowls could not withstand
Your widow's peak had left but one strand
'Twas not a benevolent god's design.

Yet your blue eyes shall never be opaque
Lucidity of the mind through them shines
As formless light, beyond art's own restraint
From time's own sands the glassmaker did take
To fashion your clear lenses without taint
Though lids may shut, the eyes remain awake.