Fifth day of the fifth month,
in a year ending in an unlucky number.

The sky doesn't say Canadian May;
with it's unpredictable rain showers.
That laugh in the face of the springtime
rhyme we can't seem to let go of.
Instead, the sky says June or July with
the sparkling charisma of a stream in summertime.
The light breeze moves through the leafless
maple trees as seamlessly as a saw
cuts through the 2x4s made of it's sisters.


This day says life, not death.


But yet as my car tears down the highway
death is in the air; reminding the world
of its immediacy like the flattened beetle
on my windshield, glowing extraterrestrial green.

The phone rings, and for a moment
the world stops.*

"She's gone"

Gone into the sky, and beyond. With nothing,
but my scream following.