[Lynn Canyon: Vincent]
Sunday, May 11, 2008
The mad garden has been tamed, I think, and now it is a mad, cold night, with torn-off clouds from the east tearing over the roof out of a bright sky, and the wind ripping at the long stems of the roses. The cat stares up at the skylights and planes continue to make their calm straight approaches to La Guardia, their flightpath to my east. It is Sunday with some sirens, and tomorrow the games will begin again. Vancouver feels far away and missed, its air like snow-water and green moss, its inlets and redwoods, balancing stones and quiet herons gathered around the paths Vince takes on his ten mile run. Blessing and keeping this man I miss.