Georgian Bay,  Poetry

Granite Expires in Parry Sound 33 Fire

Still
    moss clings to my
    spaces toured by ants and even
    spiders.

Motionless days pass
    solid and sound in all seasons,
    even this one, until my senses blistered.

Organized signals for help
    unseen as my sedentary
    service in subterranean
    bass tones even
    eluded that fir and birch and spruce and pine
    who once stood beside me night and day.

Knowing boots rested on my back, even as I slept
    as choked branches lay across my face, as I ate
    but rain
    soaked dreams drank my lineage
    hardening the horizon–

Even until smouldering spells
   struck nine and I waited to exhale.


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