Terry Fox Courage Highway

His message spreads

since the day he took to his feet.

He takes one day at a time,

one game at a time.

The contest holds no places -

only hope -

A Marathon of Hope -

that is the story of lives changed.

When he is tired,

He walks by foundations

of old neighborhoods.

He will cross a finish

however many relays

it takes to finish

his purpose of continent.

Whoever is in his marathon

will collect together

their kilometres.

Century

No arrows of popularity pointed here.

I pointed my camera,

and my reflection appeared objectively.

My shadow hurries to cross the strong diagonal.

My real self may be with the water

or sunning with the moss on the tree trunk.

My ego stands on the stone platform.

I am unwilling to change,

resolute in this century.

My Ledger

I slumber steps from the tall desk

where I would work with my ledger

in my room off the Great Hall.

My entries have stood up to the Arctic Wind,

the joining of the annual Rendezvous,

and the fortitude of the Voyageurs.

In my books you will find the orchestration

of the torn and the frayed with the tailor made,

the Montreal water routes and the fur trade.

I dress for my chore of recording sorrow and delight

in the northwest of a young nation's expansion.

In the century of the Cree and the Ojibwe

I groom myself in the mirror above the dresser

you stand before in this re-enactment.

Few of us are

entirely present in one place.

Brother, counsel me not with circumlocution

as I apply every ounce of meaning to your advice.

I take the course of action you recommend.

I take the liability to say something funny.

The beautiful dally, composing their conversation

flawlessly.

I soak in climates incidental to my search for you,

my Lord.

I see the scarecrow dance his worries away

in a jiffy.

I see you descend in a cloud to greet me,

my love,

as I climb the steps of the church

with the prospect of water

on one side of the highway.

Thunder Bay

Pledge:

Bear, path of fish to the sea,
command of tidings from the beginning -

Lead me through the mountains.
Pledge me snow.
Canopy the forest.

Answer me with company
of the coldest lakes.
Stand with me
high above the canyons.

Climb across the sky.
Shine on promise of home
and firelight.

Closer seasons to the heart

The Niagara River runs even
gallon after gallon
into the summer
splashing the feet
of those who run
and all who wait and walk
with ones they love.
Those who amble
and the dreams they have scrambled for
in the closer seasons to their heart
are a ration of summer
in a litany of all travels left to trek.

Mark Twain Lake

The road is a serve.
The game, volleyball,
stretches out over an empty highway.
Wires give way stretched to a net
between here and the Illinois River Valley.
The anthem hesitates.
Years get confused for a few days.
A keep out sign falls to the floor.
Florida lays low.
Hannibal, aware of the filter,
is neither older or younger.
The mischievous Huck disappears
through pictures of dead trees at sunset
by Tom Sawyer's plaque in an empty yard.
The family cabin is with the loved books.
Mark Twain Lake, water of the Salt River,
turns to wine in the years 1962 to 1984.