Out there in the dire hinterlands,
a vastness ebvelopes tropes of yesterday,
that will never be held again.
This wildness is not derivative; its real,
winding through a caligraphy of rocks,
like patterns placed with color in mind.
Urgencies of dryness causes the rain to
behave as unknowing saviors, bringing
to the surface all probable memories
that can be conjured or curated. Rivers,
rising to loud salutations, deny
they are the true obstacle courses, the true
trails sought only by the self-contained.
None of this is dispositive of
inner fights; the inside and outside of life.
Tha canoe you navigate skirts the currents,
like lyrics against the ravages of
unformed tastes; not so anodyne deceits.
A presense will remain. The impact, unforced.
Dipped into the Nahanni, our eyesights
are cleansed by a fresh rush of purity.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem