Mums

I so want to buy those overflowing pots of mums. Lots and lots of them to bedazzle my house with yellow and russet. But they don’t last long and then I’d be stuck with dead flowers and too many plastic pots. Instead, I try to notice them. To appreciate their ephemeral pop of colour in the Autumn sunshine. To watch the trees in their glory and bear witness when the last of their jewelled leaves fall. To be fully present when the world turns and nature succumbs to November’s relentless grey. To be still hopeful a cleansing snow will follow.

Inspired by Urban Escape. Photo by Nancy.

Urban Escape

How to escape the urbanity of artisanal beards and authentic gym-made muscles by working the land, working the earth then be rewarded with callouses, whole body aches, trickles of blood—which sound like discomfort, yet are still more tolerable than ails garnered from a desk job because it makes sense to wince when branches of prickly ash whip across my face or wild rose thorns jab through clothes into skin whereas I can't solve the mystery of why my lower back aches from sitting in front of a computer. Unlike purchased authenticity, the real thing often makes you bleed.

Inspired by La feuille d’or. Photo by Fred Ni.

La feuille d’or

Dear yellow-orange leaf, there you blow.

It pains me to see you, such resistance I have to your change. 

I know you will flood me with warm days and cool nights. 

With sights and colours that leave me in awe.

But on this sweet September morning, I don’t want you to be there. 

This hazy breeze will soon be no more. 

The childhood freedoms that recirculate through our veins will recede again.

The serious Fall and fridged Winter, they twinge my heart. 

You will fall dear leaf but you are not dead.

Resting in a deep sleep, awaiting your rebirth.

Inspired by Out the Window. Photo by Wendy Whelan

Perchance to Dream

I woke up this morning dreaming I’d just won the lottery; even though I can’t remember the last time I played it for real. I dreamed myself photocopying my tickets (just in case I lost them) and I got to wake up wondering how I was going to spend all the money I’d won . . . all of which I took as a sign, especially since the jackpot hadn’t been won in a while and today was the day of the draw. My premonition even told me how many tickets to buy.
     Wouldn’t this have been a better story if I’d actually won?

Inspired by Beatitudes. Illustration by Bryant Arnold.

Beatitudes

Because Julie gave him honey, he blesses her bees.  He also blesses her, and if I'm outside he blesses me too. He gives us a set of magical numbers and a task. Last time it was, “Complete what you started!” So, I cleaned and organized my office.  Once he shouted, “1-1-1-1!” I checked my email: 111 unread messages.
     Julie, Angelika, and I are his disciples and welcome his daily affirmations. After he passes, will his image appear in a Dr. Oetker pizza? Will we hang tiny shopping carts around our necks as symbols of faith? Is this how it starts? 

Inspired by A Woman Rebuts the Minister of Virtue and Vice. Photo of Drugstore Jesus by L. Leclair.

A Woman Rebuts the Minister of Virtue and Vice

You say God is great and we are all God’s creatures. Yet you treat us like we are God’s mistake. 

     Consider what you can see of me. 

     You cannot tolerate the shape of my body because it excites you.

     Nor gaze upon my face because it enamours you.

     Nor stand the sight of my hair because it arouses you. 

     Now, you silence my voice because it tempts you.

     Oh, hate-filled little man—a woman is not a living vice, a mistake.

     You blame your weakness on women and stone us for it. 

     Assuredly, God knows His one mistake was you.

Inspired by Say No More. Photo by Wakil Kohsar.

Out the Window

No seatbelt, cool night air from open windows, lying on the backseat, the rhythmic flicker of yellow street lights seen through closed eyelids.
     From the 504 on King, workers spill out from office towers, pent-up energy free at last, buzzing, clustering, weaving—a pub patio awaits.
     Sky watching on the way to Grand Bend, clouds part, a ray shines down like The Ten Commandments, wind turbines on farm fields silhouetted against a pink twilight.

Along the 401, the wild flowers in the ditches—a meditative blur of purple, white and yellow. So much life even in the dullest of landscapes.

Inspired by Passenger. Photo by Zoteva.