sticks & stones will break my bones
it's simple. life. & details.
sticks & stones will break my bones
moves east
we three lived in the little appartment building
tucked in the corner of duchess street. 
drank large pots of tea & spoke about
best times in cafes (victoria, 
montreal, vancouver), drinking
cafe au lait & drawing birthday cards,
playing writing games, (that one day
when the waiter fed us coffees & we sat
& sat for hours„,)
these two often bring out the best,
of each.
a house needs a centre. 
a kitchen table, round
which to gather, for hours.
share sips & bits
of this & that.
live on tops
of mountains. 
raise bees. grow kombucha. 
hand-made clothes.
hand-made music. 
& dance!
sometimes, it’s easy. 
same late-night cookie cravings, 
same lingering mornings,
over conversation & oatmeal.
or one likes to photograph. the other
better suited in front of a camera.
this is what happens.
bodies converge, with little music-
makers slung
over shoulders.
(here we caught them,
taking a break)
sandin graveyard. filled
by miners without families,
families who couldn’t
afford to bring their dead miner home. 
& japanese-canadians interned,
& then dead, before they went home. because
it was not a home. & those that lie here,
still —
she came back 
for a visit
& a coffee.
we had a birthday 
loop, round two lakes
pausing in the ghost town, the sun-
set, a hotspring’s cave, & dinner
(the only three in the diner). a toast
to fine birthdays.
a morning, just before the scattr’ing.
served with my best medicine. early light,
coffee&tea & waffles give a shimmer
to a day. a day when we were all — here.
doing what we do best. us.