look, there, out there
a nation under threatening pall
aged one hundred and forty-seven
at which
at just past ninety-seven, this lad
came wailing onto grasslands
foothills of the distant Rockies
during a brief inferno
in a town, named by a priest
who said, in French,
“such a grand prairie”
there resided, under “Pop’s” gaze
winters, long, brutal, spent in town
summers, dry, blustery, suffused in lake water
nearly twenty season cycles, then
led me to this costal metropolis
to find, define myself
now thirty cycles later
ache of age clutches, scratches
at the exit
my pen, ever sharper
gives conjecture to my
looking backward
at, thus far, a country
my country, I love her bounty
my country, I love her grace
though distaste, at times, hostility
finds my heart, pointedly towards
the regime
I still find, nature resplendent
no less inspiring today
than in my first steps
people, it’s people
boundless, sublime multicultural sweep
what lessons I’ve acquired
from those multitude of voices
repeating this:
“I Love Canada”
