The Lonely Temple

You’re a beautiful girl, it’s evident.
So is your discomfort. Your need to
prove yourself is what dirties your
complexion. I want to see you free
from the need to impress. You have
much love to give. I wish you could
open the valve.

I have the same illness
except mine is more
severe. I struggle with my grasp of
happiness, and don’t know
how to love. I stumble around bitter
and feeling out of place. It doesn’t
seem fair, although it is my fault.

Why can’t we look at existence
for the masterpiece it is? I want to
look at each face and see
goodness. Instead, I can’t
see past my own dreams
and failed expectations.
Oh how I need

fresh eyes and a renewed heart.
I need to destroy the destination I
built in my mind, along with the
the glory I see in the past.
They crush my spirits and
do me harm.

4 walls

Windows are canvases inside
a house of dim dust and quiet
preoccupation. Autumn
with its relaxing tone is
wonderful. It is a deep,
reluctant acceptance of change
and of nature. To see it from the

west window at dusk is second
only to touching it. The deep
shadows outlining the prairie are
inviting, “come and take a
deep breath of me.”
I oblige and drive
to the heart of it, an early evening
drive to the north.

I take the long road to the west
through the winding road, down a
calm valley. Where the grass is green
even in the fall. The correction line is
a dirt road without gravel, it looks
as if it is muddy glass. Gentle and
quiet to walk on but hollow and

emotional. Here I often cry.

Lucile's handle

I reflect as my finger tips press into
the moist earth of my garden. This is
where I often escape to my childhood
where I helped my mother
plant carrots and peas. Here in my garden
I am a child still. I vividly imagine Dad
coming home from the field. His shrill
whistle meant he was home and waiting
for a hug from his sweetheart. I get lost
in my childhood in the garden and often
don’t want to leave.

The day I first met my husband we were
young. I was 14 he was 17. He was so
strong and so gruff, I was scared of
him. It was my first day in the new school
he was the first student I saw that day
wearing a tan-coloured cut-off
t-shirt, with jeans. I couldn’t take my
eyes off him, but he never looked at
me, not even once.

I think about our wedding day, each and
every day. I always dreamt of the perfect
day, as any girl does. It was a pretty day
we got married in the park. Walking down
the aisle the sun breaking through the
branches of the tall poplars, the guests
smiling at me with giddy joy
I felt beautiful. It was perfect.
Jim then said his vows. He was
cringing as his words said to death
do us part. His eyes
spoke of obligation. He kissed me
but it felt cold.

Bird-cage politics

A fiery cracked persona stands as the leader
of a flock of helpless, compliant pigeons. The crowd
is perched together, waiting for
its ammunition as the brash man stands
shaking, convinced of the medicine that
he offers. His collar is choking his
neck, causing the heat of the sun to dew
his brow into beads of sweat. Un-relented
he releases with fury his gospel of bullets
and chaff. The compliant pigeons swarm
to the carcass.