because I have to believe in orchids and dolomite, the way
you have to believe in waking up, in Euclid;
otherwise,
what have I got
to stand on
because I believe in small treasures:
mittens, acorns, rubber boots
in larger ones:
peregrine falcons, universities, the Georgian Bay
it’s not always the most obvious thing,
how we grew up inside these familiar stories,
the comfort of them, believing
in public libraries and travel mugs,
in wisdom, educated and otherwise
in otherwise
in canvas bags and the CBC,
in houseplants, and clarity, and the geese
staying longer each year
in the idea that, somehow, everything matters
because, somehow, it’s got something to do with
those bow-legged white cedars
they’ve been here a thousand years
they’re not sorry