Güd wrtr

(for Louise and Bill Johnson, our friends
on the 50th parallel in Campbell River, BC)

•••

If we ever doubted that we are one world,
that we share so much, come stand

at, say, the 50th parallel, the circle
of latitude that sits 50 degrees north

of the Earth’s equatorial plane. Here,
on an island in western Canada,

in a town touted as the salmon capital
of the world—where the sun is visible

for 16 hours and 22 minutes on the
summer solstice, and for eight hours,

four minutes on the winter solstice—
we reach across the planet to hold

hands with those in Mainz, Germany,
in Wallonia, Belgium, in Upper

Normandy, France, in parts of Prague
in the Czech Republic. We extend

our hearts to those in places of
deep conflict: in Kharkiv, Ukraine,

and so many parts of Russia.
In Mongolia and Khazakhstan,

circumnavigating the globe and
oceans both Pacific and Atlantic

to this place—Campbell River,
British Columbia, on the strait of

Georgia, where salmon far
outnumber people. We stand,

arms outstretched across Canada
to places with the most lyrical

names: Medicine Hat, Alberta,
Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan,

to regions with canine names:
Newfoundland, Labrador,

even to the Lizard Peninsula
in Cornwall, England.

These bright places hold so much sun
that boldly outshines the dark times,

reminds us that we reflect the light
of the world, us reaching for you

across this imaginary line circling
the globe, your hands extended to us,

even when we can’t see each other.

The pianist, live and in fine form,
does not play “Tea for Two,”
though we are two for tea

this Sunday at the Empress,
the queen of high tea in Victoria.
Instead, he’s declaring,

with rippling flourishes,
what the world needs now
is love, which is precisely

what the sweet-smiling server
delivers as he offers us a hinged
wooden book bearing tea

descriptions as well as little
windows of loose tea we can see.
We choose, and shortly a pot

arrives for each of us—
Orange Vanilla Grove for you,
Rose Congou Emperor for me—

set atop a ceramic warmer with,
appropriately, a tealight candle
inside. And this, of course,

is just the warmup act for the
pièce de resistance that arrives,
a three-tiered assembly

of both savouries and sweets
as the pianist swings into Gershwin—
yes, our love is here to stay—

in an easy, jazzy 4/4, then as we
bite into scones topped with
clotted cream and excellent jam,

we are grateful for
and tempted to sing along to
someone to watch over me.

Except for the very casually
dressed young men in collared
shirts and shorts, and the young

woman who sat down near us
in perfectly white denim jeans,
we could have walked into

the 1930s, the pianist
seamlessly morphing from
“Embraceable You” into

The way you wear your hat
The way you sip your tea
The memory of all that

no, no, they can’t take that
away from me. And they can’t,
they certainly can’t, as you

return from a quick photo turn
around the room, settle again
into the lovely wingback chair

that is yours for this foray into
tea heaven, pick up your cup
to sip as if we do this every day,

here in this city we love where,
yes, it is summertime, and
the livin’—oh, lucky us—

is easy.

(Victoria, British Columbia)

Painted on the bricks
of Bastion Square
the simple request—

MORE JUSTICE—

each emphatic letter
rendered, perhaps,
by a unique hand,

showing what’s
possible when a
variety of humans

comes together
kindly, cooperatively,
for a common goal.

Turn it into a prayer—

MORE PEACE—

this tender process
made of breath,
of opening our

hearts to others.
Let us each pick up
a brush, dab a

droplet of paint
onto a porous surface,
watch it spread

awareness, extend
acceptance, cultivate
tenderness—

more,
yes, please,
more.

(for our Canadian friends)

•••

As the kids say,
it’s been a minute—

like two years
of minutes—

since we’ve found
ourselves in Victoria,

but we’ve once again left
behind the selves we know

to be wreathed in
Canadian kindness,

trading our dollars
for loonies,

our brownies
for Nanaimo bars,

and cheering on
Canadian athletes as

we watch the Olympics.
We are humbled by our

similarities with those
who, from a distance,

we might imagine as
different, but here,

surrounded by so much
that is greater than us,

reshaping us a tiny bit,
sanding us down with

the fine grit of joy—
this sweet city on this

long island extends
its arms, makes us feel

as if we’re coming home
again, which we have.

He stands
on an oyster shell-encrusted rock
at low tide in this protected bay,
barely a breath of wind,
safely surrounded by a shallow moat,

while I, a respectful distance away,
perch on my own rock and watch him
dig that long, sharp bill under a wing,
tending what needs tending.

A sizable flock of Canada geese
on their home turf slowly paddles by
the heron’s perch, a respectful, silent
audience pausing momentarily,
uninterested in me.

I sit here at midday, close enough
to see the blue patch on the master’s wings,
the dark horizontal mask running from his eye
to the back of his head, as his chest feathers
splay like a flapper’s fringe.

Last evening two dear ones and I
stood on a walkway for humans above
the high waterline, my present perch
invisible then, deep underwater.

Now, except for shallow pools between
the barnacled rocks, you’d never suspect
this area was inundated 15 hours ago.

Nearly everything has dried out,
including the heron, standing on one
foot, the other foot working over his
beak like a chef sharpening a knife,
a masterful bit of balance few humans
could manage.

Such grace in the ordinariness of self-care,
in the everydayness of twice-a-day tides,
as the heron, safe and dry,
elongates his neck full periscope,
swiveling his head to survey
his kingdom, as his acolytes
surround him.

Then, as this white-cloaked priest
bows his head,
I do, too.

•••

(Click on photo to enlarge it!)

(for Monika in Sidney, B.C.)

After a supper of fish
and chips, our friend walks
us through her town

to tucked-away footpaths
leading to the sea—
like streams that barely

remember their lives
as clouds, their moments
as rain, now melding

into saltwater, the source
of every living thing,
including us.

Reaching the end of one
path, we stand above
the day’s last high tide,

snapping mental pictures,
hoping to remember just this
vanishing moment—

or at least the smudges
of pink in the sky, the way
they shimmy like seals

across the surface of the sea
before ducking their heads
and disappearing into

deepening shadows.

on your heart, peel away skin
and muscle and bone to touch
what the rockstar surgeon saw,

feel it flubdub against your palms,
turn it over with great tenderness,
would your fingers trace

the barnacles that have erupted
like calcified volcanoes? Know
that they’re more animal than

mineral, relying on the saltwater
of you to survive, though it’s
unclear how you’ve accumulated

your collection. Do they grow their
shells over time like fingernails?
Did you earn each crusty fouler

after major disappointments?
Or is each a badge awarded
for earnest love, for attracting

other curious crustaceans
like your cousin the crab to your
good and well-decorated heart?

•••

For Dickie, who was, to his beloved parents, Richard I, named after Richard the Lionheart, the 12th-century English king.

(en route to Victoria, B.C.)

•••

At least a little bit of airplane French,
un petit peu Canadian airplane French,

which we recognize upon
learning about our delay,

which sounds so gentle when
delivered in the language of love:

L’avion partira désormais à 14 heures
(The plane will now depart at 2 p.m.)

We nod—yes, we understand,
(Oui, nous comprenons,)

though we do not on so many levels,
but our fatigue is quickly soothed

by our new favourite sentiment
delivered with rapid-fire kindness:

Merci pour votre patience
(Thank you for your patience).

That, and, once aboard, we hear
our all-time favourite airline line:

Sécurisez votre propre masque avant d’aider les autres
(Secure your own mask before assisting others),

which is still one of the best life metaphors
everyone needs to hear now and then, along with

Attachez votre ceinture de sécurité
(Fasten your seatbelt) because

you never know when it’s gonna be
(turbulence en vol) a bumpy ride.

Look up and find the light
as bubbles escape you,

as you hang onto the only
stable surface beneath you,

despite being tossed by waves
that have pushed you under.

You know where up is
by following the bubbles,

by aiming for the brighter place,
by allowing yourself to float.

It is the most basic physics
we must learn every time

we find ourselves submerged,
holding the breath, trusting the rise,

again and again.

the hell to write, she said.
You say, just write, but what
does that mean?

Grab an image out of your head
and put it on the page? OK.
A dog. Now what?

What do you mean, details?
I dunno—just a dog. No,
not a specific dog. Just a…

well, it could be a shaggy
black and white dog. Like
Milo. He was my sister’s dog.

I didn’t get to have a dog,
but my sister did after she
dragged this ragamuffin

she found on the way home
from school, and for some
reason my mother let her

keep it. You want me to write
about Milo? Only if I want to?
Why would I want to?

That dog broke our hearts
when he died. How’d he die?
He ran out in front of a car.

You don’t want to hear that.
I don’t want to write that.
What do you mean, that’s

where the energy is? Yeah,
I heard you—you might laugh
or cry, or both, but you won’t

die. I might, you know.
But dammit, there he is on
the page, leaping up to lick

me when I came in the door,
sleeping on the floor next to
my bed instead of my sister’s,

sometimes the only one in
that house who loved me.
You want that? Well, here

you go. And send that
box of tissues this way,
will ya?

•••

For all writers who face the blank page or screen every time… waiting for something to arrive.