PoetryBreakfast (Online) April 2024
I have strolled on the seafloor
at the Bay of Fundy, wandered
among The Hopewell Rocks,
occasionally flattening myself
into their low-tide crevices
like an ancient sailor’s skeleton
watching the tides come and go
to strip and bury the shoreline.
And I’ve seen their murky furrows
vanish and reappear and
vanish and reappear again
so many times
I’ve come to believe that
nothing ever vanishes,
that all things vanished
always reappear and
always reappear again,
always the same
but different.
But today, instead
(but somehow again)
I’m hundreds of miles away
and it’s bumper to bumper
in downtown Halifax,
and I’m waiting behind the bus
on University Avenue,
waiting for the light to change,
for the pedestrians to crosswalk,
for the bus to move
in and out of traffic
like the Bay of Fundy tides
always coming and going,
creating a tidal flow of humanity
appearing and reappearing
but always the same
the same.