301 Moved Permanently

301 Moved Permanently


Invoke (Evoke)

The candle on my desk smells of McIntosh apples – of home in the fall, when the indoor market is full to the gunnels. Its ceiling a crisscross of beams, stays to hoist a mainsail.  Along the aisles – on a downhill slant since before I was born – are the first fruits of colour.  Pumpkins, gourds, apples. Things we carve.


Every McIntosh the direct descendant of a single Canadian deciduous.


From my window here, a courtyard of trees – I see ten without trying. The maples are still green; the pines too, as always. I am a maple tree. I know enough of the bone months.


They grow tall without trying. I grow tall.


Somewhere back home, my points of origin are sitting down to supper. They have faces, names. Their own rings.


How far falls.

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