Canada Wide

Before you leave dark firs

that tear into the grey

the windy shapes of pine

and mossen rock faces

bend inward with an eye

that bridges as it goes—

let it be inward open,

as it is when it’s closed. 

If trussed by vines of you, I’d hang,

not blue-still but lovely in sun—

in slanted shims of light that gilt

each crack of life my skin's become.

A coin that’s wished upon went tumbling.

No, what of this, and palms and clasps—

what catches and what keeps us turning,

and each of these are us, perhaps.

Still me heartless when might is timid.

This hampered gait that grounds me.

Bind me in the struggle, sweetly—

break only that which comes too easy.