Adela, Slocanada, 31 May 2018

A fortnight passed in the polyhedron of light.
The land partners are slowly pulling apart.
These phrases trace the edges of waves
That go deeper into humanity and the trees
Than words can ever follow, so forgive us
If our outline seems pathetically sketchy.
There were buildings and gardens by the creek
In the woods overlooking the lake where we
Stayed as fortunate guests of the partners.
But then again, the revolution was always
In the phrases (“back to the land”) and only
Touched upon behaviors (a lot of gardening,
Yes, but also the usual human squabbling).
It never inhered in the deep abyss of waves
That are all the actions and buildings, the land
Itself, the planet figured by the phrases of those
Who wanted to love her as a sacred mother.
“Sacred mother” is a powerful phrase, but what
Does it mean that meaning and power have to do
With phrases? Generosity let us stay here,
But even “generosity” is a light like those seen
Through these tall, uncurtained windows at night.
It was never the stars that exerted the faint pull
On our lives, but our phrases and stories
About stars, our sidereal goals such as generosity
And loving the land like Earth was a nurturing
Super human. The land partnership is falling
Apart. The faith and the hope lie in our words.
The fault lies in our hearts. Nothing lies in the stars.

Nakusp Hot Springs, British Columbia, 30 May 2018

Two dozen silver heads, one small child,
Make a constellation of the steaming pools.
All afternoon, the sun sews a cloud. A leg,
Prosthetic of course, rests at one end of a pool.
A pair of aluminum crutches have been propped
Up at the other. Come to think of it, all of it,
The carefully maintained pools, hot and hotter,
The changing rooms, snack shop, campground,
Parking lot, road winding up through the mountains,
Knowledge of the spring’s existence, modes
Of transportation and information, rules
For appropriate behavior, eschewing diving,
Even the semicircle of hummingbird feeders,
All prosthetics, props, and supports for what
Amounts to a floating, blurred tranquility.
The spring itself has nothing to do with us.

Small Weather, Slocanada, 29 May 2018

Merry May will soon give way to June monsoon,
But for now there are only clouds gathering,
A bit of a drop in the temperature, breezes.
There are hypotheses about why people talk
About the weather so much. One holds it
Gives us a shared experience and a neutral topic
Allowing strangers and enemies to converse
A bit. Or, it could just be that despite everything
We’ve invented to protect ourselves from it,
Clothes, shelters, hearths, culverts, levees,
And forecasts, it still affects us, still steers us,
Occasionally still loots, impoverishes, and kills us.
Weather can hurt. A little nervousness is in order,
If not, perhaps, so much chattering palaver.
On a steep slope looking out over the lake
Toward the wilderness, the voices of children
Float through the trees as the afternoon darkens.

Bigelow Bay, Slocanada, 28 May 2018

The bald eagle circled low over the waves
Pounding a carpet of pine pollen onto shore.
Two middle school boys, fat and sleek as seals,
Barked and cavorted in the cold rollers, ducking
Under, ducking the rolling driftwood logs.
The young-leaved birches flashed silver.
A hundred or so meters out from the high
Shoreline encroaching on hiking trails, the gold
And green water in the sun looked the same,
Near as memory could manage to match it
As it ever had. All the prior swims and days
Range the changes on the waves. What makes
This latest suite of memories unique? The same
That makes every slice of experience unique,
Whether of a sweet saturation such as this,
Bold outdoor colors and pleasurable exertion,
Or of a banal and senseless nothing much:
Nothing that is was ever anything but itself.

Summit Lake, British Columbia, 27 May 2018

The dragonfly larva waddled over the grass,
Black and awkward out of water, shadow
Of the bejeweled leonine beauty it would become
If it survived this stranding far from comfort.
What is it you want from these lines? What
Would make you content to peruse and reread us?
Daughter scooped up the wanderer and
Scrutinized it in her hand. She took it to the water
And watched it swim and ground itself again.
A little tap dance? A little rhyme? Earthy language?
High-flown rhetoric? Something more experimental?
Are we mad enough? Will we ever cut it, break
This shell, split these seams, unfurl our wings?
Daughter finds a recently shed exoskeletal ghost.
Daughter gets a water bottle from the car.
She wants to raise the larva. We try to tell her
In our rambling lines, if the marvelous insect
In its ugly carapace is removed from its needs
Beside this pond, the wanderer will surely die.

Winlaw, British Columbia, 26 May 2018

A woman asked a man, both strangers, if
His daughter attended Winlaw Elementary.
She was contemplating enrolling her daughter,
Who appeared to be about the same age.
The body language and sociality of greeting
Were not wholly unique to human apes, but
Consider the remarkable information exchange
In the query and reply. No, we’re summer residents.
It’s probably possible to parse this slight slip
Of conversation entirely in terms of the needs
Of the individual animals communicating,
But why bother? As anxious as the mother
Might be to find out about the local school
Or find a friend for her daughter, as much
As the father might think it would be good
For his own daughter to strike a friendship,
Almost all the business is transacted in the puffs
Of breath and among the laboriously installed
Systems of memory for the same language.
The words are really talking to each other
As populations of frogs hop between ponds.

Shoreline, Slocan, 25 May 2018

The water’s been rising all month, as it will
When the snows and spring rains are sinking.
Some years more, some years less. This year,
More. A heavy winter, a warm May. The shore
Now is the rock-lined footpath that will be
One or two humans high above the beach
Come August. Daughter and father sun off
On the rocks of the path after a cold swim.
This is a good thing. Dogs and hikers amble by,
Surprised to share their wooded trail with swimmers.
“We’re like mermaids,” says daughter.
“That’s what I’ve always thought,” says father
Swinging his painful, nearly useless legs,
Back into the indifferently merciful water.