Written by: Cyndi MacMillan

just appeared,
a haiku migrating west, 
refusing directions, 

yet still humble.

When it was reborn as an epitaph 
on a flag at half mast, revealing 
sheer luminosity, I wondered which 
path it would light next, so I stepped back,
gracelessly stumbled on a sonnet, 
grieving, interned in headlines, 
Another Child Lost: Caught in Crossfire

It's volta found marks, intended targets.

I explored the city with the verse,
moved by its presence, bedraggled, 
yet more alive than most men. Four stanzas 
vibrated a steel drum that a student played
under a maple at Waterloo Park, fingers
orchestrating each line. Dusk crumbled
artistic hesitation, lingered upon 
the hardened smiles of cemetery angels,
and not a single device could be seen as a 
grizzled man wheeled his vacant-eyed wife
down a winding ramp, ever so slowly,
but romanticism settled on her thin shoulders, 
stilled the lost gestures of gnarled hands.

Night came while I kept the changeling
company; learning from its curves, 
trailing sidetracks, tagging reflections,
and I was torn down by its tenderness, 
inconsistency, fervidity, despondency.

I kept its pace as it walked streets, posing
a prostitute with prose, a narrative
requiring translation and a careful refrain.

Odes and free verse sent rondeaus spinning,
and before dawn, in a stanglehold dream,
it continued to transgress, multiply, 
ruthlessly, the shapeshifter grew
enfolding me in manifold truths.  


A poet is creature unlike any other... one I can only dream of becoming.

You know who you are. And you are poet. 

I love you, Guro. Stand tall. Be you. Listen to spirit... it knows, luv, it knows...