To you in the Storm

It was two weeks ago I took
my camera to Victoria Park.
Canada Geese and ducks
owned the lake,
crowded the shore. Crocuses were
blue promise under
the old island trees.

I have a picture
of a hawk on a limb.
By the pavilion. Remember,
where the playground spills
towards the wading pool
and I took photos of you.
It was summer then, wasn’t it?

I tracked the storm on the weather channel. Everything rushed up
from the US middle. Hot moist Mississippi air kicked Arctic butt.
This is now mid-April and there seems no end to global warming.

The news from Afghanistan
continues to be horrible.
Six more body bags will soon
return to Canada. We were promised
glory and the genesis of
a new world. I have seen
these storms too many times before.

We get into our car
in the morning. The sky
is blue. By noon, clouds patrol
the horizon and the wind howls.
Snow walks through afternoon,
smothers us in a heavy
white blanket by dinner time.

My mother continues to do well, although time drags her down
and back. She talks about Slovakia and the world which no longer
exists. Time is a white page and she’s forgotten how to write on it.