Elora Borealis

1. Interlude of Quiet

The cool air of the floor of the gorge rises from the river

to the warm heights of the plateau in the light, rain-damp afternoon,

the early spring sun lost behind cloud for days, disturbing only

the equilibrium of mist drifting through the railing balusters

of the David Street Bridge to swirl the span, caress the trees

rooted to limestone cliff edges before the updraft

dissipates the remaining haze into the gray skies

above and beyond the view from our kitchen window.

There is a tenderness in the mist, an uplift to yet another

gloomy April forecast, to the chill that refuses to surrender the season

of harsh winter, otherwise gone but for warmth delayed.

Even now, the cold-battered willows,

maples and ash, seem to heal in the soft, stray breezes,

the scars of the December ice-storm still everywhere to be seen:

lost limbs, branches; split trunks and denuded boles

seem glad of the palliative day and the care of restorative drizzle.

The human animal carries the idea of spring postponed in our bones, 
while the trees linger at their own pace, nurtured by soil and water

and the many lives in their roots

while they await the sun of their quickening.

I wait with them, glad of nuanced mercies, at peace,

because they have so far survived the changing climate,

as have I, whether doomed or not, the outcome in the balance,

trouble enough for another day, for another interlude of quiet.