The aspen by the lake
filters the morning sun
gold upon his lovely cheeks
His coffee cup trembles
as he sips and tells me the same old stories
for the first time
I nod and bear
the significance like a custodian sworn
and consider the meaning of my own pallid life
What does it mean
to leap from a bridge
shamed and impoverished as the land lay wasting
And tormented for quilted coats
and shoes wrapped with desperation
and binder twine
Or light a cigarette
for a friend torn and bleeding at your feet,
a farm boy who would die a man?
He argues with my mother
over toast and saskatoon berry jam
about things that do not matter
Yet their banter is a comfort
that I have known all my life,
back and forth like woodsmen sawing
They have lost everything
except themselves and a tender love
born from the grace of elders
I listen to him in the evening
and watch my mother
serve up a second piece of pie
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