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2 poems

wildfire, wildflower
which word holds more power?
I would say they weigh the same
I’m the one misread the name
Canadian Wildfire Society
wildfire wildflower
interchange
they both say passion

cup plant –
that’s the picture in my den
our flower, you said,
to what is happening here, I said, a testament
your gift for my garden
higher than the seven-foot fence
its yellow daisies, sunward
best admired
from above

cardinal flower –
there’s fire
tall and strong for the hummingbird’s eye
at summer’s end and in the fall
when heat begins to leave the ground
it flares by your stream
in my garden, too
heats our souls
heals

bountiful beardtongue blossoms
petite, purple – pink and lightly hairy
lanky thin bobbing stems
moving on the mere wisp of a breeze
or the entry of a bee
they live ‘til November
caressable
by a gentle finger

rare white gentian
aside its scarlet autumn partner
its flower lobes
faced you
one cool day,
through my window –
where did you get it, you asked
from you, I said and
fast,
you insisted
I return one plant of the two to you
for your cottage

wildfires wildflowers

passion for you there passion for me here

passion for you here passion for me there

and now,
as you nourish your beloveds
who blaze and blush with autumn colour
in their favoured beds
readied by you

did you love me
as you love them?
Am I in your flowers now
as you are in mine?
and
is there ice enough
to kill
the root
of a wildfire?

September

Aside the peninsula dock
secured by a bright yellow rope
nestled in iron gray glass
under a darker gray sky
the red canoe
is
still

Here, there
right to left
east to west
summer to autumn
Vanguard proud
brown leaves
nudged by a ghost wind’s bare whisper
glide by
The summer is setting. We watch.
A bald man breaststrokes by
just a head
unintrusive as a loon.
Last
silence with the water
Look beyond
from the dock-precipice
onto
clear
dark
wet
mirror
a gull, black, soars through it

its airborne partner over it

Look across
to the slate reflection
dark trees of the far shore.
One with water with air: mystery interchange
Slip in, slip out
through the bars of the white-handled ladder
It’s so like a night dream
in silk.

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About sandra marie lewis

All my tales are of the non-violent kind and with plenty of variety to keep you reading! Some are fiction, some non-fiction, some sad, some silly or humorous, some long and some short. I myself am all of the above except for long. Never. I'm short.

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