the cameron tree

he planted it when
his arms and legs were small
because he was just a boy then
his hair blonde,
fingers tiny and damp
he held the seedling wrapped
in paper towel
and planted for the joy of digging

so limbs and branches unfold
over a decade – unfurling to fill
the house he is growing in
as roots lift tile and fir
branches touch the gutter, shade
the cat, who favors his back leg now

needles from the cameron tree are
everywhere
carried in the wind, or under slipshod feet
through the garden
through the house
across the driveway
to the street

summer home

sifting warm ocean air
through spread fingers
on the number one in august

in the bowels of the lower mainland
the water treatment plant
turns like turbine
under the bridge
cut logs lay in wait
while a black crow cloud stirs
above the choke

the dishonesty of photographs

mostly they lie in black, in white
in midday lighting -- outdoors
with hands on hips
and tilted jaw lines

like a highlighter through philosophic text

we are poised, laughing
dancing, with pursed lips

arms uncrossed

caught youthful, and unaware
intelligence and grace flexed in
the bicep of 24 years old

the rest is,

unframed –

there are only so many photo albums.