always the heart. Those matters
of heritage, lifestyle,
We make promises
and say what we mean
when we first say it.
Forever after we are somewhat unsure;
Did I say always? Sometimes?
Yes, I will walk each day,
eat more raw broccoli
and taste collard greens.
Yes, we will be kinder to one another, practice
lightheartedness, and forgetfulness.
By now some arteries are permanently closed,
but collaterals may grow, who knows.
Damage is indicated by various dashed lines
on the cardiac print-out. Your family doctor
will interpret these with you, and review
your wellness plan.
Blockages, self-righteous debates,
where to win feels like death by drowning;
selfish for air we grasp at anything.
How much tissue
has been greyed out
where once bloody and vital?
They call on her for one thing only;
she is built to lift the weight
they cannot. They attach safety chains
and she swings beam after beam,
rafter upon rafter,
up and over the building site,
and lays down each piece
in its place. She knows
her capacity and her reach,
the stabilizing legs
hold her firm.
Do not ask her to dig
or scoop or drag.
Do not ask her to change
what she does best,
her gentle lift, the ballet
of all she carries.
It isn’t far
along the road
to where merganser calls
from the lake shallows. Swallows swoop
to kiss the surface, and in the scruffed willow
a canary seeks what she needs most.
Beauty is always here, the creek
emptying her season of heaviness
as I too will be emptied. This inevitable
ebb and flow, the grief
of making way. Waves wash
and return like a promise.
The mallard drake treads water
steady as the hen dips and eats
and dips again. Each calm repetition,
the layered mountains to the south,
in the coming rain.
Haiku for the Hours
Sun’s love is certain,
turns night storms to diamond fire,
each raindrop, a light.
The orchard calls you,
trees are laden with words.
You of lack, come, eat.
learn to hold the almost dark,
learn why robin sings.
Wild, nocturnal cat,
compulsive tracker of clues,
nine types of darkness.
© Lesley-Anne Evans 2016
A new year, and always I begin again. To wake up. To write. To cast my thoughts, words, dreams upon the water. To wonder at what it all means. What’s next, what’s new, what’s possible, what’s true, what’s better left unsaid, what’s needed now.
Slant light on the neighbour’s roof;
the first sun we’ve seen in days.
The snow glows with it. White hot. Hopeful.
Trapezoid rooflines point high up to the clear dome
and down to where the New Year and me sit
and concoct plans sharp enough
to pierce the ozone. Cold. Silence. Window.
The Monashee and their inhalations of sky. Breathe. Breathe.
Light is fading fast now, a vague
idea of what it was, what I thought
it might mean. Dusk. Blue land. Monochrome.
After you pour the seed
they will come close,
like they already know something.
Chicka-dee-dee, rosy finch, black-capped junko
compete for one perch,
unaware of other openings
in the feeding tower,
or your kitchen table admiration.
They appear to trust you
and your “original mix” from Buckerfields,
but the glass between you is a false promise,
closer contact will prove harsh, or final.
Still you feed them. See how
they dart and depart,
dine and dash,
your lush communion brief, at best. See how
they wing away and eat at a distance,
eyes on the sky
for sparrow hawk
who, like you, has dined here before.