Bushed
How quiet it is, how still
The snowflakes gently fall
Settling silently on dark, old green trees
Wise old trees, huddling together
Harbouring ancient truths
Be quiet children! Stop fighting! Stand still!
How can I dress you?
Jumping around like little chipmunks
Heavy sweaters, snowsuits
Scarves, hats, mitts
Thick socks and boots
Jump on the sledge
I wonder what hasn’t arrived today
Which shelves are empty?
Perhaps the storekeepers have my problem
And cannot remember
They forget what to order
And don’t even know they forget
But I know I forget
Hi, Mary! How are you?
I’m well, thank you!
Hullo, Susan
Isn’t your baby beautiful?
What a fine girl!
No bread yet? Nor milk?
Will be here later this afternoon
Held up by the storm
Come, children
Let’s go home
Oh! I am so tired
Why am I always so tired?
Hi, Alison!
Yes, the snow is lovely
Bye, see you soon
It would be nice to visit
But she cannot ask me in
Into her home, so neat and tidy
With the children, like little squirrels
Running and climbing everywhere
The fallen snow has wrapped the world snugly
In a white blanket, sparkling white
Now tinged with pink
As the sun begins to drop
Into the lake of ice
Silently dropping
A silent fire
Can it melt the ice
In my heart?
What’s on TV tonight? Sport again? Damn?
Oh! It would be so nice to go out somewhere
As we used to, so far away, and so long ago
Of course, there is always the Bar
Promising a haze, a mist of forgetting
A laughing at loneliness
Or the Church, holding out a welcome
The sharing of a lovely dream
Haven for the lonely
Rest for the weary
But what of the present
The boredom and frustrations of the present?
If I could shake off this apathy
Perhaps I could do something
But what?
Have I always been like this
Irritable, moping, bewailing my lot?
I hate the person I have become
Am I condemned to be like this
Forever?
Dear old trees, cuddled together
Under your warm, white blanket
Tell me your secrets
Share your wisdom
What ought I to do?
Poem Written in: Pickle Lake, North-western Ontario | July 1979