Poem for Spring

Humber River, Looking north from Dundas Street bridge; BB Z10 photo by Steven Potter

Humber River, Looking north from Dundas Street bridge; BB Z10 photo by Steven Potter

Beneath the silent frozen floe,
Waiting for its time,
Under stumps and rocks and ice,
Sleeping in the vine,

Measuring days, the warmth and light,
Solar angles rise,
Sending home from parts unknown,
Pulsing wings across the skies,

This silent Spring drives clockwork things;
We’re captive in the round.
We sense the Earth’s rebirthing;
We hear the trickling sound.

We are the melting winter ice;
Through crystal cracks we make our start.
And fracture down through frozen ground,
To pool inside our Heart.

We follow close the hidden stream,
Carving worlds anew.
We fan the fire feeding dreams,
Of sun drenched hills in view.

Of flowers, fields and gentle breeze,
Creatures of every kind,
Spring grows and shares all we hold dear,
Miraculous Design.

Another rainy day in Toronto

Stewartia pseudocamellia in my front yard

Stewartia pseudocamellia in my front yard

Weather for the ducks,
And meteorologically insane.
Some say that it sucks,
Others say a pain.
#Toronto can’t get enough,
Of early summer rain.

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A poem I tweeted earlier today, with a photo showing the upside of our really lousy weather: a beautiful landscape.

6:00 am in the Martin Grove

Photo by Jaber Al Nahian (Rijans)

Photo by Jaber Al Nahian (Rijans)

East Indian man,
Through bus stop glass,
Greets the morning sun.
Fingers wrap the heart’s Desire,
Another day to serve the One.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
That’s the beginning of the poem; the part I tweeted on May 10, 2013.

Earlier that day, while driving to work, I saw a solitary, humble prayer being offered up amidst the chaos of Toronto’s morning rush hour. When I saw his lips moving I had to turn away, and regretted my intrusion on his sacred place. But I do remember the glow on his face, his upright posture, and his gently clasped hands. The few silver streaks of hair told me he was about my age.

A few days later I learned more about the factory collapse in Bangladesh, and I wondered who his prayers were for.

Of course it’s completely presumptuous for me to assume some connection between the prayer of a stranger and a tragedy half a world away. But somehow I feel the connection was there.

For about 15 seconds, at Eglinton and Martin Grove, this stranger and I were introduced by Chance. Now I look for him every morning, but have never seen him since. I wish him well.