It's Fair To Say I'm Not Always Cheerful.

And occasionally I'm downright gloomy. This week it may be a kind of flu. Exhaustion? No, I haven't deserved that (though I did work several bags of peat moss and manure into the garden on the weekend, and I did plant two new trees). It could just be the ups and downs of life. It probably is the ups and downs of life. Into the valley, and out the other side.

My partner, Greg, is a glass-half-full type. For the most part, he's all sunshine. Example: when we're running up a steep hill (and I'm breathing what feels like my last), he'll say something koan-like, ie: hills are flat. Lately his motto has been: You can only do what you can do. 

He also sleeps brilliantly. And knows how to relax. (Just saying.)

This afternoon I felt good for nothing except staring at the shifting shapes of clouds, but this morning I had more energy during my 10K run than I've had in weeks.

I forced myself to my desk, and wrote the following.

Some of it is true.
___________________________________________________

Bees

Rare to feel old as this. Twice my age,
at least. Limbs heavy as elk
sprawled near the Bow River
in Banff. That was years ago now. Or January.
My blood’s soundlessly coagulating.
I record the soundlessness with my smart-phone
to fool me to sleep because nights alternate
between witches and wolves.
And where my bones meet
at my sternum, the potato-sized stone
that does not melt with wishing
or the heat of my palm.

A vessel of I shoulds.

Bake bread for the neighbour who is kinder
than he was. Mend the red shirt
with whatever thread I can find.
The downstairs tenant never leaves the house
and I swallow his stones, too.
Why don’t I set a bowl of tomatoes
outside his door? Spread on tea towels
in my kitchen—they’re green. 
Frost coats the night-garden like aphids.

                             I still run. This morning

I tore into the river valley
and out, hoping someone would cross me.
A man on a bike is assaulting women
in this city. I can no longer
even be afraid. First morning in leggings
instead of shorts, and I ran like a girl
with no concept of time
until I needed to release my finicky bowels
in the woods below Jasper Avenue
where the homeless live. I squatted
beside a shopping cart left sideways
in the weeds. I didn’t see
the grey-bearded man with his blanket
and bed of cardboard
until I was already wiping with leaves.
Eyes like oil slicks. Hands frayed
and twitchy. I wanted him
to say something
or slam his mouth on mine and make me
taste the dull tin of blood.

Watch said twenty minutes until home
and I fingered my keys.
The sky was smoke-blue, broiling.
Traffic on Jasper like bees.

 -Shelley A. Leedahl