national symbol

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.

Maple leaf filter