A Saturday Caesura Poem
Two grain bins, weathered and warped,
squat behind a mess of caragana
as if ashamed of their gaping uselessness.
But as I walk past on a Saturday,
or any day,
their silent presence becomes a friendship
in the midst of fields stretched wide. Empty
except here, where the aging bins
are serenaded by a small chorus of redpolls,
their soft symphonies celebrate a camaraderie
expansive enough to embrace even me.
Ever since I was old enough to safely explore beyond the boundaries of the yard, I have delighted in the way vetch vines create micro-jungles along the forest floor, the way flowers bloom and fade in a seasonal procession of colour, the way sunbeams and breezes use tree branches as props in their shadow plays.
The delight has only increased over the years.
I cycle up and down prairie roads and delight in the brilliance of canola in full flower and in the undulating waves of grain. Rich shades of green lie heavy across the landscape, anchoring everything to the soil, to summer.
I hike a mountain trail where rogue rivulets from recent rains and ongoing snow melt flow down-over-around-under rocks and roots. Airy forests give way to dense shrubs, boggy meadows, and, finally, to steep slopes carpeted with lichens and stubby alpine flowers, their impossible presence a hardy welcome in these regions that border barren rock and scree. Snow still clings to the leeward edges of jagged ridges and peaks. The wind is cold. Drizzling rain turns to ice, but it is not enough to pelt away giddy delight in the views that extend in all directions.
Expansive. Majestic. Breath-arresting.
Sometimes being outdoors fills my heart so full of delight it aches.
Great are the works of the Lord; they are pondered by all who delight in them. Psalm 111:2