This spring made winter an insulting opening offer, now the
passing lane is getting harder to negotiate, thawing out and
icing up again. Past the Mint, where a circle of provincial
flags are flagging in the front yard, tired of trying to make
us think that it hasn’t always been so hard. The sky looks
seasick on the boxcar sway, where the Atlantic and Pacific
are the very same far away. The sun pulls me out a bit and
lets me go, and I’m a vacuum power cord in the back of that
van full of kids cleaning carpets for the Lord, so I make
a little list of sounds I’ve found have comforted us in the
past: the roar of the rumble strips, and the Mennonite metre
of the flood forecast, or how the wind strums on those signs
that say the Atlantic and Pacific are the very same far away.
Steer this boat around the snow plow spray while the Atlantic
and Pacific are the very same far away.
