Friday, November 18, 2016
When you spoke, I listened,
and it was as the pattering of rain
after a long dry spell in the Fraser Valley,
soaking the yellow ground.
There were diamonds of glassy water
like tears on the eyes
of the flat blueberry fields.
They welled up
into juicy night-blue stones,
like sapphires grow in caves
for Lady Sappho.
The baby, in her white eyelet bonnet,
sat in a blanket in the afternoon.
She was the muse of time
and the canyons of her ears
heard the songs of the rivers and the forests;
we painted her that day
as we could not afford a canvas.