Worry

B writes, I am no longer sobbing every day, finally realized that this IS life not some bad dream that I will wake from

And it IS like a dream, the flow of random events, the stream of nonsense we strive to make sense of later, in a bar, at a table, on the phone, in our minds as we wash dishes, chewing over in our head what happened what happened what I could have what I should have why they should have how I might have when it ought to have why it, why oh why did it...

We say dogs worry a bone but their gnawing ceases when, finally, we trip over the abandoned bit of cow thigh that has been licked clean, every morsel gone. Oh to be a dog whose worrying ends! Our minds relentlessly find fuel in the slightest gesture, the briefest word. At five it can be what is lurking, being made a fool of, being left behind, not being able to, not knowing what to, not trusting not not not. At eighty-five it can be what is lurking, when it might strike, what will happen after that and then and then and then...

Worry's a rushing river we can drown in, our very cells choking on what we can't let go. Cells can't refuse as we re-light the wick, re-fuse the fire, keep it going the mind churning along looking always looking for flotsam to cling to to save to escape this slow suffocation. So busy clenching we forget the path along the shore, the one step by one, one crisis by one, one sorrow by one, one fright by one, one joy by one, one doubt by one one one.

What can we do but remember we're still alive and breathing. Sigh of relief. One breath then another and another till we remember this is who we are, a bundle of nerves tangled in frail magnificence.

Grand River pow wow

all dance alone, dance together
pressing the earth
feet answer the drum

pulse in our skin, our flesh, our bones
beat of the heart
each moment, each step

I am outside, but in the circle
in my mind dancing
on this world's sweet chest

sky is watching, as we gather
patient, gentle
this air is our home

fruit of the month

ah the beautiful plump of blueberries
the round soft lush of bunched fruit
burst of taste on the tongue

drought dulled this year's sweet

some places are drowning in rain and we still
press pedal down down, drive our metal rusting bodies
through the brown haze once called air

thirty-five years ago in school we
heard tut tut tongues clicking disapproval, fertile
farmland disappearing we
moved away from dirt under our nails and
hoeing till our backs ached, we
followed the pull of purchase

now the promise of leisure lies
around our bellies and clenches our hearts
and we treat ills in sterile rooms kept pure with poison

but on this sunny day my
breath tastes water raising cool from the green, my
fingers cherish the labour of these roots, my
ears thank the melodious air, my
oh my I remember what is precious