to remind us of eternity's slow  measure:


firey-leaved japanese star-maples, 
knarly-trunked wind-blown spruce, 
lacey white pine, miniature forests 
of mossy memories through which 
jutted iron-red rocks.


You hosed cool the patio slates in 
sweltering August just before 
guests came to savour your famous 
ice-filled gin & tonics fragrant from 
fat fresh lime and to hear your hilarious 
stories, punch-lines impeccably timed.

Later, when the gin wore off 
the comedian was eclipsed by your harsh 
German father who had little interest in you 
except when you were working, 
who sawed your antique cherry-wood 
hopechest table into two for firewood. 
The guests only met the man
 who threw back the rug and
tapdanced beerily, red-faced w/ laughter,


who skillfully played Christmas carols on 
the remaining 3 strings of the old violin, 
who gifted all with hand-made wreathes & 
table-pieces thick with
marble-sized holly berries.

So many years I wrestled with 
a cold king, grasping at that Crown, 
driving my dagger in dreams through 
his thigh, raging with adolecent oedipal rage
at Victorian restrictions until 
the final flag was flung between
 us by 
the Viet Nam War 
and I found myself breathless, heart pounding in 
my rib-cage ,my axe now cutting down 
tree after tree 
deep in Canada's empty northern woods.