Empty houses
scattered along the line of the shore;
a buffer for the wind
as it roars up from the sea
to wash over the island.

But don't worry,
this
is not a ghost town,
it is by no means barren or desolate;

In one house,
a whole family of otters have taken up residence on the sundeck-
webbed feet resting on the glass table
tails knocking coasters to the floor
gramma, curled up and napping on the best seat.

In another.
the mice
have built their nest in a mailbox
conveniently left open
soon
it's delicate painted flowers
will receive a whole new kind of delivery.

Starlings
have overrun the whole upper floor
of the small yellow house teetering in the edge of the cliffs
they swoop
in and out of the broken attic window,
the whole frame creaking
as it swells with their singing.

The canoes,
lying on their sides next to the dock
have been turned into permanent tide-pools
shelter for the delicate frolicking arms of anemones
and the hard-shelled scuttling *****.

The coast,
is quickly reclaiming
the stakes we tried to make in her.

Who
is to tell me,
that these
small
tranquil
things
are not worth saying?

Why
do you insist
that poetry
is to be saved
for grander discourse than this;
                                                   -simply
                                                       thanking the rain
                                                           for cleansing me
                                                                 of my resentment.

When my grandmother dies,
I hope they fill her casket with flowers.
So that the last time we see her,
she is nestled in amongst
the delicate feathered petals of mountain bluet
haloed by the bright yellow of birdsfoot
the length
of her soft
decaying body
is caressed by the long stalks of bottle brush
and bog candle
so that we can imagine her,
splayed out in a warm field
on the outskirts of St Johns
laughing in the sunlight
the weight
of such a long life,
of mothering so many children,
melting away
into the warm red soil.

I hope the service
is held in a small white church
with all the windows thrown open;
the clear air and the sunlight
tumbling down onto our heads,
onto her lightly clasped hands,
onto her soft  lips...

I hope they read poems for her
play light happy songs for her
I hope
everyone remembers to tell her
they love her.
I will ask,
that they bury her somewhere
with a good view of the stars,
lay her to rest where the wind
blows the smell of the ocean over her,
and she can admire the sunrise
under the arms of a gentle Alder.

I hope we remember
that she has loved
so deeply
that she has laughed
and lost
and been so unbearably human
all of her life
even when she has been quiet
even as she has cared for us.

I hope we remember
what a resilient woman she is
but also how tender.
How new she once was,
to love
and to it’s touch.

And when I
am someone’s grandmother
I hope they remember
that even I,
was once somebody’s lover.

Aboard this wide
lumbering beast,
we pass through miles of mist
Fog rising of the sea;
a long warm exhale
leaving our hair and our coats damp.

In our insulated passage
the trees hardly notice us
these hearty coastal forests
lost in thought
staring out over hte dark water,
staring back across centuries.

I wonder
what the eyes of these pine have seen
how many times
have the delighted in the breaching of a humpback,
watched with amusement
as the fat seals sun themselves on the rocks,
bulbous bodies glistening and jostling above the water
or held their breath
s they feel the encroaching silence
that precedes the armada of black fins
slicing smoothly through the glassy water.

Grief
rears its head
roars thunderously
makes itself known.

We
howl like a wounded beast
bite and snarl
all teeth and nails and spit.

If only
we knew what we were mourning
then maybe we could let someone close.

But this grief.
arrives with no warning
it settled in with no explanation,
we suppose
it must be our inheritance
it comes hand in hand with our sense of hopelessness

Autumn
has blanketed these piney slopes.

Splashed among the evergreen
the orange leaves of maples
nestle in like sleeping cougars.

The yellow
of turning aspens
is the fluttering wings of a goldfinch
guiding the eye seaward.

the red of oak,
salmon
jumping up along the shore.

The sky today
is bluer than usual;
I wonder if that means anything
                                   (a mental note to look it up kater)
The plane
passing overhead
looks so clear
                    -details crisp, easily interpreted
              how low is it flying?
I feel quite certain
that if I were to reach up,
it would fly circles between my open fingers,
a curious bumble-bee looking for his cargo.

I am sure
I could pluck it
right out of the sky;
a life-like model
in a giant's hand.