By the sheets of glory

That we try and muster fireside,

Stone hearth steam

Wading in rafters

Amongst wooden pillars

joy’s balm tenders

to burnished labor’s company

In the dreams perched on branches

Of surrounding pines I

Can’t help but wonder what sorrows

Have been buried in the sand with oysters

And what births them both.

But a wonder it is to be child

In this play-pen called an inlet’s girth

Fjord fingers,

Beautiful depth,

Scores of quakes

Shaken to the cod and flounder's nests

A sea’s water is soothing to know

I’m doing something with my hands,

Feeding people

Which potters appreciate,

Purely poised

At the throwing wheel,

Vessel for provision.

This poem was written when I worked in Canada for a week.