silence

here are my arms

                             my mouth open

full of words

                     full of air

my mouth open

                          with silence

like a wound

                     my mouth open

my empty hands

                            here are my arms

highway

we hadn’t see any wildlife

along the highway the entire

time we were on holidays.

halfway home, it was still

all trees, pines and firs,

fireweed covered foothills,

fog enshrouded mountains

and cascading waterfalls—

beautiful, yes, but not

what we had hoped for.

we decided we’d ask God

to make it happen, and why not?

not long after we saw

a bear trudging along tall grasses,

a moose standing calmly on the shoulder,

a bald eagle circling over a small lake,

mountain sheep traversing

a sheer cliff face, one slipping

and recovering juvenile

causing us to catch our breath.

we all felt such joy and wonder

at those moments, nature

presented to us in bite-sized chunks

of glory, an answer to prayer

and the gift of coming home.

even without pictures,

that shared experience still

reminds us that seeing

something together

makes every journey full.

gaps

in the middle of the conversation

there was a gap in the middle

of the meal there was a gap

in the middle of the day

there was a gap in the middle

of our lovemaking there was a gap

in the middle of the book

there was a gap in the middle

of the poem there was a gap

in the middle of the family

there was a gap in the middle

of the night there is a gap

in the middle of my memories

there is a gap in the middle

of the only story i know there is a gap

in the middle of my desire

there is a gap that i want to fill

stones

today we spoke of tradition;

how it is both the river

and the river’s shore,

how we hold it in our hands

like water, but we hold it.

we all start from somewhere:

an action that finds its home in our body,

heart folding around that action

through the discipline of repetition,

desired or not desired,

as we labour with hands or knees

courting the divine,

or some approximation of it

that allows us some certainty,

convinced we are not entirely wrong.

we launch ourselves into the argument

of first and last things;

how language shapes our journey,

the edges of every thing we know

and how we can know each piece

as if existence is a puzzle

we can solve now and forever,

but not our own hearts.

we deceive ourselves.

we look for a place to anchor,

end up a stone’s throw

from where we started:

still unsatisfied.

bait

i did not mean to seduce her

with words. they were never spoken.

just on the page, each serif

a hook in the eye.

when i did speak, words

billowed out like clouds,

flowed over my lips

like smoke from a fog machine,

each phrase carefully posed

for maximum theatrical effect.

those words were a stain

on your skin, your body

a parchment on which i wrote

songs in your favourite key,

over and over and over,

fading like an echo or with wear.

now there is only the memory

of words, poorly captured.

they escaped the net

like butterflies, or fish

that swallow the bait

then spew it from their mouth.

now those words are ghosts,

ripples on the surface.

the wind carries them away.