The maple leaf isn’t
here for me. The world sees red, white, red leaf, white, red. I see white,
grey, blues, greens, wet, fresh, cold, wind, shrubs, fences, barbwire. Black
asphalt and yellow lines, porous cracked concrete and birch. There are less
evergreens here than in the west, but there are no maple trees in the west.
The flag can be white.
Snow is white after a snowfall. Or it’s yellow or melted neon blue and green
salt, or grey, or in piles. It’s white while it’s falling. It’s snow while it’s
falling. White and snow, adjective and noun. Humans touch everything, even
before its in reach. Name it means to understand it, or it means to own it, or
it means it belongs to me. You name things that belong to you. You didn’t name
God. God chose his own name, and he didn’t even need to use vowels.
I only notice maple
leaves when they’ve already fallen. Life seeping out. Leaves are so dramatic. A
human dies, and either there is blood everywhere or they just die on their back
and the blood pools into the back of the brain, the back of the arms and legs,
the heels, marinates the spine. But pretty soon they’re just white and maybe
blue and then grey.
A leaf waits for the wind, and then sets
herself onto a gust. This is the start of her death. But maybe it’s the start
of just when she’s about to live. She floats maybe to a branch, or maybe she
sits comfortably on other exhausted leaves. She’s probably lying on her back
laughing, bliss, warm laughter, warm savasana glow. She would probably be cold,
but she flushes. Her life was for that. Her life was to let go. She flushes
either yellow or red or orange (colour depends on whether your printer is RYB
colour or more fancy with cyan and magenta). Some flush before even falling,
but even the thought of love can make your cheeks blush.
Dry dead leaves on sidewalks
and patios. Leaf blowers throwing resting corpses into the air again. Some
maniac saying, do it again do it again, but not on my lawn! Crazy eyes and this
awful grin.
The less stupid ones
are less spectacle but no less noise. Sucked into a bag on their back, set in clear
blue bags with neat knots and arranged appropriately on the curb. Maybe a nod
to the neighbour, Sherry…Shirley, Claire? Smiles and the same thoughts about
the weather and then one says to the other, life, with rolling eyes, and other
says, tell me about it.
What they really mean
is I wish I would’ve stayed in bed one more minute so that this awkward moment
didn’t have to happen and please god do not tell me about it or life or you or,
please let this be over with and I’ll make sure to look out my window next time
to only take my recycling out when you’ve already set yours onto the curb.
Showdown, ladies at
windows, sitting on piano benches.
What they really mean
is, how did they get here.
They blinked and all
of a sudden it all smelled like liquid makeup and potpourri and vinegar.
There were boys who
tied their own bowties and drank their whisky from mason jars. And boys in
overalls and trucks that smelled like dust. And gravel roads and wheat fields
and canola fields and fences and flowers and spring dresses.
The toilet smells like
bleach and antibacterial wipes.
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| Maple leaf filter |
