This poem is about a mindful moment I stood with my dog watching the Burrard bridge and the little boats near Granville island across from the English Bay. It had stopped raining, the world was quiet except for the crows and I stood there alone but not lonely — at peace.
In my soft dreams of you, I reach out to touch your almost forgotten fragrance. Elusive and hanging by a starlight thread beautiful and out of reach.
If I grasp you, I know you will take me down old hazy roads where passion fruits wildly spilt open, bursting sweet,yellow,juicy in the sun, the beloved scent blending with quiet peach roses that grow peacefully behind the whitewashed wooden backdoor, of many a childhood escapade.
When I was a child, I thought your sepals were real velvet, here, I see you blooming but you don’t smell quite the same, maybe you are from another time, another place.
The color of crayons and fragrant china pencils, the murmur of school time sounds -grade three. The kind teacher I liked so much, ‘Misha magazine’ with an apple hedgehog recipe. Fables and snow from far off lands, ‘Matryoshka’ dolls and Russian red cheeks. Library time was a dreamers’ place, silver fish and moth eaten -heavenly.
Open blue skies like springtime cornflowers, freshness in the air that was life. Pigtails and friendships and best friends forever, young, untouched, innocently unwise.
Grey school stones warmed up by the sun, Crunchy fresh mountains and trees, a sweet lisping classmate, sharing her crayons, giving to the world so generously.
Through open windows the sunlight gently falling, warming little hands at work. On pencils they nibbled, on notebooks busy scribbled, a drawing, a lesson, a sweet memory.
My best grade three memories at Loreto Convent Darjeeling.