Artwalk POETRY and ART

These men, our men,
tall spruce on winter's snow,
stand firm in the moonlit sun
their branches frozen
on a blizzard afternoon
their brown trunks
textured cotton
when its grainy touch
ripples at your fingertips.

And you think their roots
hold firm in Canadian soil.

Felled by lightning
in a mid-noon bolt
these men are shattered a little:
an artery here, another there
clogged with winter’s snow
which should have melted
but lies heavy in their hearts.
These men are a winter green
adorned with mid-March grey.

And you hope they would attune
to Canadian climes.

Their trunks are robust
yet cracked a little
for who would guess the sap
that oozes each winter
or the underground summer rain
that half shelters their roots
half bare to the elements
flung in air, struggling
in non-native soil.

And you cajole them into accepting
their children's dreams.

These men, our men,
are open to blasts of time
and we, their women,
surround them with our breaths:
obstinate fantasies
of our winter spruce
standing tall while we
keep them warm
in our secret bowers of desire.

But we learn to bow
to their obdurate hold on native reveries.

* * * * *

We, their women, chant whispers of desire

enact ritual dances, hold the open line
our hands veined cobwebs
as when you see fishermen's arms
pull in nets of their summer's toil.
Still, we, their women, smile and rage
tie threads, re-weave our tapestry
to outshine spring's wanton celebrations
when its sun rises on our wild ones
swaying in ravines, while we,
their women in our secret coves
spin and weave, cut and sew,
hold and reap, weep and laugh
as we reverberate to our men's cries

then we, women, turn and spin our children's dreams.