Mt. Prevost:
A Tanka Suite
(for Pete & Kayla)
no fire warnings —
mushroomy humus
of the forest floor
in my nostrils
brings me home
top of the trail
rock and asphalt?
remnants of a wartime
lookout installation
now a hang glider’s leap
kinnikinnick —
or some relative of
the stately arbutus?
branches highest at
the edge of the cliff
Mt. Prevost —
small print of
the hang-gliding rules
at the edge of the cliff
still hard to read
(Mt. Prevost, near Duncan, bc)
crawling into cracks
of the old garden timbers,
bees carry rolled leaves.
blueprints for a nest
or apian wallpaper?
one cirrus smudge
against cornflower blue sky —
only the marshmallow
forms the snow takes
soften the shadows
“Save our elms” —
standard tape around the trunk,
but on the suckers
someone’s left a rosary.
to ward off what, I wonder
haikoodling
my wife calls the process —
such a simple term
for such slow slogging
in the word trenches
so hard to tell
whether bird or last leaf
on top the bare elm.
ah, but I prefer bird,
resist binocular proof
long shadows —
sky cornflower blue
just the same.
every snow-capped house
a cupcake today
so cold —
even the frosting
on the fence
remains undisturbed
by paw prints
sick in bed —
from the dresser mirror
staves of the power lines
wait for the grace notes
of the birds’ silhouettes
broken branches
bridge between trembling aspen —
plaques and tangles
in winter’s own
frozen mind
pine martin tracks —
patterns as distinct
as our snowshoe shuffle:
no hesitation though,
only frozen holes
serious cirrus —
irrigation pivot
one long dinosaur
skeleton splayed
along the horizon
watching mosquitoes
probe fat veins in his arm,
he clenches his fist,
watches their abdomens burst.
more fun than swatting them dead
crawfish claws —
all that’s left after gulls
drop them on the walk
and feast on the soft
underbellies and feet
can’t decide
whether the plants
in the waiting room
are real or not,
whether it matters
driving my blind
mother-in-law
to the airport —
all the trees in leaf save one
ganglion elm on the plain
so many rvs
up on blocks, for sale;
gas prices so high —
I half expect the tortoise
to divest himself of his shell
old Hammond B —
same price I paid for her
in the sixties:
that, and all the other notes
suddenly so sweet
(for Quenton Wagstaff)
twenty-six years
since Nigeria was home —
my sand-cast statue
Fulani Venus mama
holds court in the flower bed
a sudden zephyr —
the Moorish turban turbine —
the neighbour’s roof vent —
spins silver rays’ raiment,
draws in Aladdin air
Weedwhacker and Finch —
could be a legal firm,
but, no, it’s my
retired barbarian
neighbour making grass meek
chainsaw caterwaul —
no match for robin’s
burbling rejoinder.
if this were a cutting contest,
the bird would win wings down!
after the storm
twigs litter the lawn,
magpies come
to size up the lumber
for their nest
hazardous structure
the spillway sign warns;
osprey crying —
to express displeasure
at our human presence
on the windfall gash
a butterfly spreads its wings.
more wine than nectar
still, it siphons what it can
amid the red cheeks and rot
sister too nervous
to drive the freeway
proposes her friend’s
uninsured limo service —
its shadow longer than the car
(Sauble Beach,on)