In the Soan

I’ve come to the garden today with my new friend Rosie Evans, who is visiting Montreal from Bristol, England. Rosie has chosen the Amerindian Garden to write in, while I’m in my old haunt, the little wooden soan, which looks out over the pond in the Japanese Garden. On the wall behind me, a small plaque explains that the soan is “a modest shelter set apart from city noises, where poets and others would retire to regain contact with nature.

I sit looking toward the pond, which has been drained for winter. The sun has some warmth, but I am wearing gloves today. It is the season of impermanence, the yellow leaves getting ready to fall. Only a few clumps of chrysanthemums and asters are still in bloom.

were we to meet

only for a brief time

too short

too short

this summer of love

the leaves

are falling, scattering

in the breeze

I know I must give him

a long leash

maybe

he’ll be back

I’ll just let him be

and wait

for the last leaves to fall

I don’t

deny it

there’s greed

in how much

I desired him

I clung to him

like a leaf to the maple

now I let go--

not him but the wind

that sets me adrift

patience

and faith

that he’ll return

the cat too ran away

and came back

how beautiful

the yellow-leafed

coffeetree

the sun brightens

then slips behind clouds