Oh, Mother, why did you
let down your guard and think
Christmas would ever come?
I am now you twice and
Father had no answer. But to
travel to the ends of this
earth, the abyss, always
the same one, in a mirror,
through a gate or bridge
or bedroom door. Not a word
could cover it fully.
Not a syllable or sound.
And I held your hand as you
got your new marriage,
under Canadian skies,
over blue waters and
choppy waves. Canoes take
hard work, paddling, paddling.
The portage is endless now,
between Misty and Timberwolf,
I look for the crook
of a tree.
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