Words

Drawing comes out of a wordless place. I've needed that outlet lately. Sometimes the words all sound the same. The art class facilitator gives me some ideas for recombining and approaching them freshly.

On the way out of Wyndham Art Supplies, I find an old pad of the Meridian Drawing paper that is so nice for Prismacolor pencils, 100 per cent rag, a slight cream colour. I haven't found one since forever. It's slightly battered around the corners, but I happily buy it for 10 per cent off.

In St. George's Square I buy a sausage on a bun and sit on a bench, watching pedestrians mill indifferently around the naked people in the fountain.

How many poems can one write about a willow tree? There are only so many things to say about the way it bends or cracks over the water, about darkness and grace, strength and fragility, the light in its leaves at different seasons, stories flowing underneath. Only so many words, but the willow transcends them all.

I remember. Wednesday evening driving to rehearsal in the westering light. Suddenly I come to a corner where the air is full of white petals. For a moment I am transported to an afternoon in April 1987 (I was 23), arriving in Vancouver by air and renting a car. The streets were full of pink drifts. I had never seen anything like it. Crabapple petals covering the city.

These white petals are falling from fragrant black locusts, glowing and flickering like a living veil, the bride of heaven, the fading song of spring. How many times can I see this and fall in love all over again? The words are still the same, and they burst within me.

This is Sempervivum arachnoideum.