Sunday, August 9, 2015

Ottawa to Montreal

If a poet looks out at the Candian countryside,
sad for each blade of grass she won't get to hold,
and each leaf she can only hug with her eyes,
as they travel past with no plans to return,
are her feelings less meaningful if she doesn't write them down?

Is it enough for her thoughts to simply exist,
or must they be translated into prose to gain value
so that others might understand
why a tree whose story she will never know,
can comfort her with its branches
and hidden roots,
tethers only the tree can feel
just like the poets heart,
a ball and chain only she can feel,
and no one can find,
unless she hands them a signpost,
like the ones she keeps passing,
on her way to a city she's never been to before

where she may find someone to tell her tale to,
so that she doesn't become a storyless tree,
alone in a forest of many.


Written somewhere on the road between Ottawa and Montreal. That countryside...

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