Fields & Me

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By the Window

I’d like to live with you
In the valley northwest of town,
Between pines rising
And falling to the river.
And the things the stones say
To the river passing through.
And in the valley where we live—
The thin light
Of mornings pour down through branches
Like creeks that flood into our house.
And sometimes, afternoons, from the small kitchen,
You sing,
You sing by the window.
And your voice floats at the windows.
And if you didn’t love me, I wouldn’t mind.

– After M. T.

Like Fruit

Out there,
how do I know you
try to catch
something of me?
Often,
the apple tree
alight in the sun,
trembles
when the red finch,
heady with seed,
splashes into glass
then drops from the sky,
like fruit.

The Burning of Light

What I would like to forget is the snow
The way it does.
The manner in which it hesitates
On the black earth like backs of fish
chumming in shallow haze
Tramples over frozen words.
The young deer making it across the car
Scouring the brain’s slippery scrawl.
The coming of Summer, the light
Loose in the fields for the love of other things
Which still sing to me from
Shadows smouldering behind trees.

Seeing Things

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Windows

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Belwood & Orangeville

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Dark Skies

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What’s Left

These days, I feel I’m what’s left
of winter, crusts of it on
the window sill,
or snow in the planter by the steps,
hidden from the sun.
Or behind the screen door,
shut tight, rattled
by a breeze each time
it opens an inch.

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