History becomes
the inhalation of clutter
as though November wind
has blown a city's worth
of litter through our desire
to consume.

Nearing retirement, stripping
weight from ourselves, we discover
forgotten scraps—notes crusted
with remembrance—from a life.

We're reinventing ourselves—
an empty warehouse—
once a depot for general auto parts—
Desoto, Edsel, Studebaker—
empty, a thought in the minds
of the planning department.

In visions, new pharmaceutical
school arises—pristine tower
awakening a city's core
once presumed dying.

Not yet—no, not yet.

Waltz of the Wallflower

you’re a flower bordering
the Trans-Canada Trail—
yellow petals delicate,
five and open

I’m a kilometre west
of St. Jacobs—there’s
a hint of Conestoga River
beyond thin cedars

that’s north—south, a corn
field wafting to scrub bush
and new suburban development

I aim the camera, focus, shoot
the photo flashes on the LED—
you’re yellow flower in front
of green brokah curtain—
gorgeous star of this morning
scene and I don’t know your name

Camouflage