The Next Assignment

Sunday morning at Goldstream.
Late June’s sky is dull.
The boys’ bodies are warm at wake up,
my husband and the white dog yawn.

Coffee,
a fire,
my book.
Then my son and I walk
to the waterfall.

The chute tumbles.
Emerald ferns sparkle.
Water leaps
from canyon’s rocky rim
into the still pool below

where the diamonds disappear
into darkness.

Nearly naked
I stand,
goosefleshed,

and consider.

The pool looks

cold and deep,

strangely alluring.

But what might I find

at the bottom

of that beauty?

Face your fears,
my son tells me,
eight and a half --
mid way between boy and man –
already.

This week he endured the dentist’s drill,
I don’t like this, he cried.
But he did it.
Sometimes we have no choice.

I dive in.
A shock.
But

water is the bending element.
Transferring my mass to its buoyancy,
I don’t fall;
I fly.

My son watches,
then leads us back to camp.
Look how he finds his way.

Arbutus,
Doug fir,
salal.
Honeysuckle,
red cedar,
stinging nettle.

Nature has no favourites.

Back at camp
Secundo brews salmonberry espresso.
My husband throws cedar shakes
into the fire
annointing the air.

Incense,
innocence,
bliss:
the all knowing
acceptance of whatever it is.