I run the sheets out on the line

they hang like wet rags

all I want is a good stiff breeze
so I can fly two sheets
to the wind

A change in the air, imperceptible
at first, a kind of trembling, catches
in your throat, like singing —

a line from a carol, a whisper
of poetry, memory, angel’s wings — something
in the air, something catches
at your sleeve, you’re turning —

and snow is falling, with a kiss, a flutter
against your cheek, a gentle touch
cool and familiar, you’re looking —

up, your head thrown back, hands
open, to catch a few snowflakes, to welcome
the first sign of winter.

at the beach, that’s the place
where summer begins
time trickles away, sand
slips through my toes
and tireless waves keep
scrubbing the shoreline clean

I watch as life passes by on the beach —
an old man stoops to caress a smooth stone
then releases it, skipping, across the water,
a child fills a big yellow bucket with sand
and smooths it carefully after each spadeful,
a golden retriever, rippling with sunlight,
leaps into the waves, looking back
grinning —

from my viewpoint, my blanket, my space
on the sand, I look over the lake
to a low line of clouds,
a drift of sails along the horizon
where gulls wheel and turn, their shrill cries
far away, far from troubling
my holiday, here at the beach.

After so much
civilization —
once great expanses of open fields tamed
into concessions
blocks of land measured off into bites by roads
and stripmalls —

after acres of industry and parking lots,
I find this sudden sea of green
refreshing

I watch, captivated, from the air
forehead pressed against the glass
my eyes following traces of roads and streams
winding randomly
not carving up the space
but exploring it

if there are houses, they are invisible from here
and stores would be swallowed up
the parcels of cleared land are hemmed in
trees pressing on all sides
their roots reaching toward the fertile fields.

Later, rising again into the air,
I see the city hemmed in by tide and time
lights marking the harbour’s edge
then scattering
charting a ragged path along a rocky shore
and dimming into twilight
as the cool green forest closes in again.

On bleary days, anchored
and brined with sleep, my eyes
blink indignantly in the glare
of morning. Dreams,
more real than waking, trailing
shreds of meaning,
flutter randomly
helplessly
as I begin
to gather my senses.

Miraculously, some mornings
are more agile, stretching
unobstructed to a far horizon. My eyes
spring open, dancing
with the first trill of birdsong
and I know
as if I have always known
that today will be good, today
each moment, each ordinary thing
will be well. As for sleep —
it is true that in dreams I can fly —
but when I awake
I am real.

contemplate life, this need,
this drive for sustenance,
this desire for wholeness,
and still
this yearning for more

contemplate death, this arc,
this springing from still water,
then gracefully bowing
a sigh
returning to its source

contemplate this, how life
and death complete a circle
and how, in dreams
we travel to other worlds, and this:
why
we still yearn

Evil is not darkness,
it is noise. It crowds out possibility,
which is to say
it crowds out silence.
History is full of it, it says
that no one listens.

by Jan Zwicky, from The Geology of Norway

Once, defying gravity, air
sweeping past my face, by
a twist
of wind or fate, I was flying

barely half a breath, reaching
forward with my eyes, just —
wait
I want to see, I want to —

the rest I do not know, only
one suspended
breath
when I was flying

maybe
there are clouds, maybe
rain or snow or hail, it matters not. But
sometimes laughter moves me, sometimes
mourning doves coo softly in the eaves
or neighbours chat as evening falls and roses
drop their scent into the summer air, o where
could I be home
but here

I blunder
from the shelter of dark trees
into light.