white tulips
                whiter still 
                in moonlight
 
 
                cherry blossoms
                the small birthmark
                just above her lip

  
                moon 
                in and out of clouds
                my mother's cancer tests

   
                endless rain
                in my mother's kitchen
                the snap snapping of beans


 
Away

My children live in far away cities 
where lights in midnight towers
may be confused with stars
heaven floating down on them
their lives flying open.

Cities of markets
multimedia installations
police checking passports
holding guns.  There are methods 
of transportation: sky trains, subways,
water taxis, cabs.  And eateries 
of a hundred kinds of food
on plates like palettes 
of impressionistic colour
their landlords inviting them in
to dinner.

Perhaps there is a lobby in their apartment
with art on the walls that reminds them of home
perhaps a red canoe tied to a dock
or a boy with a dog by the sea.

Perhaps one night they may be
riding a bus, overhear a word
like cowabunga or bonkers.
They will be transported back to some
family gathering maybe by the side
of the river or grandma's back yard.
They will smell the roasted chickens
on the grill, their uncles smoking dope
in denim jeans and plumes of grey
spiralling out of the barbeque.  


 
And, sometimes in me

Home from China
each rounded leaf
reminding me of moon gates
this summer night 
fanning against my skin


Where can I find
a bamboo bird cage
like those in Shanghai markets?
The slow scuttle
of clouds


Finally finding
a bamboo cage
in the antique shop
the owner wearing
new red shoes


Nothing lives
in the bamboo cage
only a memory 
of a creature
who sang before dawn


And, sometimes in me
a great desire
to lift open the little door
of the bamboo bird cage
let something fly free