Güd wrtr

(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.

I almost stepped on it—
though it might’ve been my

sole that brought it inside—
a leaf left in the shape of

of a bird on the kitchen floor.
I looked around for the potential

bringer-inner, seeing only Poki,
who is the tidiest of us in this house.

More likely Diego who loves
to lie in the detritus outside,

or me, out raking. It doesn’t
matter—what does is that,

thanks to the cloudy bright
light falling through the back

door window, it leapt up at me,
like a truly winged creature at rest.

I bent to meet it, peering, then
capturing it in pixels, taking a

moment from chores that needed
doing. And in that deep bow,

on what would have been my
father’s 94th birthday,

in a rare moment of grace before
setting it gently outside, half

expecting it to fly, I thought
to utter the best prayer I know:

thank you.

(for Rose Varesio)

And though you were waiting,
maybe praying, for her release,

still, now, you want her back.
Not as she was near the end,

but as she was when she was.
And now that she’s vanished

into mystery, incommunicado,
no way to be in touch, you worry.

Did you do all that you could?
Did you say all that you could?

Did you care enough, love enough,
tend closely enough? Listen:

she’s whispering from somewhere
north of your head. Not words.

All that’s left is the love. In fact,
if you head for higher ground,

looking up on a clear night, locate
the dipper pointing toward the

north star. See? There she is,
beaming at you as she did so

often when you weren’t looking,
shining adoration upon you,

and always, always pointing
you toward home.

Maybe it’s for exercise, sure,
or because I try to get in the pool
as often as possible on

summer evenings because…
well, it’s summer, and the pool,
sunshine-heated perfectly on

these too hot days, sparkles
seductively as I walk by…
you know you want to…

Perhaps, on the day I turn 66,
I will do my old synchro workout
because young women in Paris

will soon compete in what’s
now called artistic swimming—
as I breast stroke my way down

the pool, then scull a length
on my back before reaching my
arms overhead, torpedo sculling

feet forward, then sitting upright,
legs egg-beatering—in memory
of all those hours in the water.

Or maybe, as I pull on my suit
over this older, lumpy-middled body,
I invoke the names of long-gone

pool gods and goddesses who
carved through water like ships
under full steam (bless you,

Esther Williams), set one foot
into shimmering turquoise,
then the other foot,

just because I still can.