Inukshuk Poem by gary polonsky

The sculpted spirit strains his widened waist.
‎Will it topple? Who will offer bread?
‎Who will wash their feet with little haste?
Who will ‎prop a pillow 'neath their head?
From farthest north the Inukshuk ‎has mushed
With nothing but a sled and haunting hounds,
Certainly the scent was why they rushed,
Now he's here, with me - familiar grounds.

Some day, I hope he'll guide me whence he came,
So many, many miles‎ into the sun
Where only tundra, cold and ice defend their fame
And every breath's a cry to everyone.
Meanwhile, we sit, amid the neon sights,
Gandering to glimpse Aurora's Lights.


Written in Ontario, Canada - 3rd May 2020