When I sing “we stand on guard for thee” I want that to mean, from this day forward we stand for the first people and their rights, we stand for the natural world.
I am the woman sitting in her back garden
contemplating drought and weeds.
When I begin to write, I want the lines of a poem
to be the small pebble that drops to the water’s depths.
Sometimes, instead, a black feather
weightless and floating.
Sometimes a child’s chalk candy
If we are happy, let it bowl us over.
If we are lost, let’s find the shore.
Tonight, music and fireworks, a date,
the many years, the immigrants,
those who have come, who have stayed.
Those whose ancient ancestors wait
in the shadows of long-fallen totems,
call on the brave to again be brave.
I have been reading Thomas King and Virginia Woolf.
I have been imagining the very words and the earth they rise from,
how I too come from these places.
I have been laughing. Carefully teaching my son
how to hang laundry on the line.
Cold water, clean soap
and for a stain, the sun’s light to bleach.
I am barefoot in my garden.
I am standing in the uncertain mist of history
hoping to slow the world down.
I will touch your hand,
repeat your name to remember it.
Language is alive in a poem. Memory in a word.
I am a woman standing on the shores of the great pacific,
I am reaching out my arms, ready
to learn the first words of this land,
holding hope as I walk my feet into the jagged tide.
- a poem for Canada Day, July 1 2015