As my toes touched water and we skipped rocks while the sun drooped low,
we saw things like horse-drawn carriages,
heat rising off asphalt,
creeks, marshes and rivers.
Lakes that were really just puddles;
Lakes were were actually oceans.

Under tall, fat, flat-bottomed clouds,
I saw men driving remote-controlled cars
round and round in circles
in a dusty would-be parking lot.

We saw a hippie van,
nestled into the trees.
We saw a lot of those.

I saw a balloon, tied to a fence post
at the end of a long lane, reading
it’s a boy.

A bald eagle soared over Agawa bay.

I tripped my way over pebbles in my bare feet,
stumbling into the icy cold waters of Lake Superior

(one of those ocean-lakes).

There were sunsets and
spluttering, uncertain flames that we coaxed to life with our hands,
and the sounds of rolling waves together with crackling fires and far away voices.

We saw laden-down hitchhikers hiding behind cardboard signs
but we had no room for them.

There were tumbleweeds and thunderstorm threats,
stories of giants hiding silver.
Foxes on beaches
and an inch-worm on my sandal.

I have so many things to tell you.

The prairies were golden flats and sooty skies,
butterflies and not armadillos,
baby sunflowers that were really black-eyed Susans,
upon inspection.

Fast-moving stagnant water,
not recommended for swimming.
Fast-moving turquoise Athabaska.

Motels, hostels and patches of grass or gravel,
the back of a pickup.
Thirteen I wish we could stays while looking over our shoulders
as another temporary home shrank away.

We went away far and then returned back.
The wicker furniture hasn’t blown away yet.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s