closed the wash
of it like surf against your ribs and the air
crisp as icicles on your tongue
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thereâs gentleness in this slow sure creep into being
and something in you reacts to that
needs it, wants it, dreamt it sometime
so that the sunâs ebullient cascade
down the pine-pocked flank of mountain
becomes the first squawk and natter of ravens
in the high branches of fir where the wind
soughs like the exhalation of a great bear
raising her snout in salute and celebration
to this Great Mystery presenting itself again
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Nindinaway-majahnee-dog is what the Anishinabeg say
and when that language was reborn in you
that phrase more than anything adhered to your insides
all my relations
this is what you see from here
this connectedness to things, this critical joining that becomes
a revelation, a prayer and an honour song all at the same time
a blessing, really, that someone cared enough
to come and find you in your wandering
and bring you home to it, to ritual, to history
to language and the teachings youâve learned to see
and hear and taste and feel and intuit in everything
this ceremony of becoming
that morning brings you to again
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you become Ojibway
like the way you become a Human Being
measure by measure, step by step
on a trail blazed by the hand of grace
every awakening a reclaiming of the light
you were born to
The Canada Poem
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I
Listen. Can you not hear the voices of the Old Ones talking,
speaking to you in the language youâve forgotten? In your
quietest moments can you not feel the weight of an old and
wrinkled hand upon your shoulder or your brow? Listen.
Close your eyes and listen and tell me if you cannot hear the
exhalation of a collected breath from your ancestors in the
spirit world standing here beside you even now. Listen.
They are talking. They speak to you in Dene, Cree, Micmac,
Blackfoot, Ojibway and Inuktitut but they also speak
Hungarian, German, Gaelic, Portuguese, French, Mandarin
and English. The voices of the Old Ones. The ones who
made this country speak to us now because there is no colour
in the spirit world, no skin. Just as there is no time, there is
no history. Thereâs only spirit, only energy flowing outward,
onward in a great eternal circle that includes every soul thatâs
ever stood upon this land, embraced this Earth, been borne
forward on this Creation and then fallen head over heels in
love with the spell of this country. Listen. They are speaking
to all of us now, telling us that weâre all in this together â and
we always were. Listen. Only listen and you will hear them.
They speak in the hard bite of an Atlantic wind across Belle
Isle, in the rush of Nahanni waters, in the pastoral quiet over
Wynyard, in the waft of thermals climbing over Revelstoke
and Field to coast down and settle over Okotoks, then again
in the salt spray of Haida Gwaii, the screech of an eagle over
the wide blue eye of the lake called Great Bear and in the
crackle, swish and snap of Northern Lights you can hear in
the frigid air above Pangnirtung. They speak to us there.
Listen. Listen. There are spirit voices talking, weaving threads
of disparate stories into one great aural tapestry of talk that
will outlast us all â the story of a place called Kanata that has
come to mean âour home.â
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II
sitting with Earl in the cab of his truck
the â65Â Mercury all banged to hell
from running woodlot roads and hauling
boats and motors through bogs and swamps
to landings the Ojibway said were there
and where the jack and pickerel lurked
in the depths beyond the bass at the reeds
âmoreân yuh could shake a stick at,â he said
and laughed and rubbed a calloused palm
along the windshield and talked about how
âthis old girl, she done seen her day but she
still got go in her by godâ and laughs again
and talks about his