Dead Leaves not Burning Bushes

signs of life stump
Here and there a spotting of sprouts dots the mottled browns.

Spring has made a first pass through Mount Royal Park,

spraying green fiddlehead splotches across winter’s forest-floor.


A stream tumble-rushes down the bricked gutter I slowly climb.


I collect my breath; a pool collects the runoff,

and there at the junction we stop to examine each other.

My camera an act of worship.


But if there is an epiphany hiding behind some underwater twig,

or secret sacred words lodged deep in the mud and deadfall

to bubble up toward my reflection,

I miss them.


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