Friday, November 20, 2009

Inuksuk, Inukshuk , Inunnguaq

Inuksuk, Inukshuk , Inunnguaq

Westbound on the 401, I caught a glimpse of an inukshuk
right at the tip of the fusing asphalt lane.

Over my right shoulder
in the boreal green haze of the mid-June afternoon,
suspended on heaps of granite rocks,

amid the fumes of the drizzle evaporating & eroding the air.

A cairn in the shape of a faceless man,
a tentative ledger in lieu of shoulders, balancing the weight of a larger burden
made of quartz and limestone:

his identity.

Seized up in a stone soliloquy
the inukshuk’s precarious balance
reached out to me,
in the fast  counterpoint of the advancing day.

The faceless man
asked me who I was on this road.

Whose words did I hold on my own terrace of songs?

Thirty miles east of Kingston –
 & the question followed me home,
among the curving boughs of the road

filled with looming maple shades and white poplar fluff
carried by winds to glacial and oblivious lakes.

The question stands – who am I?

Inuksuk, Inukshuk , Inunnguaq.

Posted on  ->The Inukshuk

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