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Canada is a fragile cliff,
where the snow twists up the edge of its foam,
like a climbing vine sculpting its flour
over the goodness of the great land.
All the chlorophyll, with
its green staircase,
like an emerald that remains at a distance,
and the ivory arriving with its revolving teeth
to direct the confidential formation of the day.
The light elevates my smile.
I love the solitude of this
land,
its silence of a yellow cathedral
storing in its broken wintry throat
an elastic drum of stone and dust;
it adds to my origin of clay
the peace that, for a moment, I had overlooked.
I am free within its soft
white poncho,
and I dream of its horizon that threshes itself,
forgetting the frontier that dangles in the rain. |
