|Karen Solie [National Post]|
from Karen Solie's Short Haul Engine:
Little brother, seeing
that blind wall approach,
his tricycle flipped end over end,
asks if it's the end of the world.
We who live here
in the lap of this dry mother
know from our beginnings that it will come in dust.
Have heard those drifts
that trouble the fenceline in daylight
wash around the house after dark
reminding us of how a good rain sounds
like the suck and hiss of fire.
Mornings, we've seen perennials dead
even on the lee side and have feared
the loss of each other
to shrouds of our own land spun
by wind that will not stop.
But it does this time, as before.
Another calm apology
for seed planted in door frames,
these newly-hatched sparrows
choked by earth
that leapt up to bury them.