This poem shakes me. I wrote it originally as a big fat paragraph, free-written in a sucky Western Canada coffeeshop, looking at a lonesome group of Douglas-firs, naked-looking amid the housing developments of Langley’s suburbia. The beginning, of a memoir that might not find any ending—The Draft.
In the coming weeks, months, years—I’ll share its bits and pieces, like this beginning, the parts which feel whole.
Prologue
Do not worry about the time. Come. Take a seat. Any seat--any where-- will do. Then, straighten your spine. Plant your feet in the floor, raise your crown. Close your eyes. Look up. You are breathing now.