The rocks and
trees
of Northern Ontario, inky
lakes and dozens
of inukshuks watching the highway
make me wish I was a painter
or, at the very least,
better with words.
If I could describe these places it
would be the love poem you deserve. Every
word
seems inadequate to describe the erratic
meteors
leaping into Superior at twilight. Instead
I watch you. You lean forward, breathe.
Resurrect
the campfire from flat embers
to vertical flames in just
two whispers. And I think, same to my heart.
