A Poem

Lake Cowichan, August 2016

Room for three

in a nest of blankets

on a floating dock

beneath the splendour of stars.

We count meteors

and talk about God,

and where Grandma went

when she died.

My son explains the mechanics

of solar systems.

“I know a lot about space,” he says,

with the confidence of an almost fourth-grader.

I laugh, but silently.

“What’s so funny?” asks my daughter.

“Your body’s shaking,” says my son.

I say nothing.

How many years have passed

since I contemplated constellations?

Too many, and in the interim they’ve receded.

Once they glittered like diamonds

just beyond my reach.

Now they’re made of a duller substance,

less distinct and further out.

Once I lay beside my own mother

under a naked sky,

and when the earth shifted

I clutched her hand,

for fear I might fall.