Grey, in the grey way only Ottawa can be,
Incandescent like the dimmest of lightbulbs,
Fueling for change, but never garnering the courage,
(Yet I, like the trees, tricked out in the latest fall
fashion, myself after an image even greater.)
I am the water,
un-protruding, yet mildly intrusive at times. Ottawa,
turning its collar up to me.
The brilliant color of the trees, a seeming contrast
against the sky.
I wrote pretty once.
Who am I kidding? We both did, with appropriated voices, cultivated,
Were they our own?
You disappeared into a bubble bath, sud by sud,
Until faintly there remained a trace of you on my desk,
Encapsulated in a frame, poised, smiling, winking.
Is that you now?
If I could place you, I’d move the frame closer to my heart.
Hold you tight, endlessly righting all wrongs.
You taught me once.
Despite your endless barrage, and your endless baggage.
But you, like your baggage, have carried on.
And I am, or am I, left here reminded of my own.
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July’s Full Moon in Capricorn: The Heart wants what it Wants. The 4 Stages of a Good Divorce. A Letter to my Children: You do not come from a Broken Home. Our Soulmates are Rarely Who We Expect. Men, Let’s Stop Fooling Ourselves: Size Matters. To the One Who Tried to Break Me. Mom, can I Call her Mom, Too? An Open Letter to the Fixers. How your Stored Memories in the Amygdala can lead to PTSD. Jon Stewart makes first appearance since retiring—”it’s not your country.”