Always A Story Told
it seeps into your bones
when Spring is
still grey
or when a silky
sun sets
that solitary endeavour
for the burdened
and
the starved
the most Canadian of authors
forego purported
folk-art pretenses
decisive tastes
heavy handedness
big green tent parties
laissez-faire
robust tea-leaves
red rusted Volvos
ankle-length
caftans
snowy
patriarchal beards
for undisclosed faddish frills
to be laugh-out-loud funny
for several pages at a time
stars in up-scale hair salons
belly up for a cheesy burger
just
to be able to play
it settles in your stomach
like morning
sky’s indifference
or when winter
winds screech
presumptive parables of fear
for the designated
and
the encumbered
under-songs for storytellers
firmaments for the fictive
always
a story told
a wound opened
it is also poetry
**
On the days when the world around me stinks, the people
simply suck, and the weather is still unfairly unseasonable: I write. It makes
me feel better, helps me to be forgiving, forgetful, fortunate. Brings me back
to the earth where all of the good things are.
Grateful for words and my ability to use them.
In propinquity,
Nic
