Recreation Guilt

It's that season where we can get to feeling we should be out enjoying Canada's brief summertime by bagging peaks, paddling rapids, and otherwise engaging in copious outdoor activity! Here's my antidote. It's one of my older poems, posted here upon popular request.
 
A Contrite Banffite Seeks Pardon

Forgive me, Rockies, for I have sinned.

It has been months since my last hike.

I could have walked through autumn leaves, yet was content

to lie on the couch,

watching through the window while aspen surrendered their leaves.

Mountain-bike trails deserved to be ridden,

not spurned in favour of Star Trek re-runs.

And how could I have danced and drunk until too sick for next day’s hike?

Twice, I failed to walk to work.

I purchased fossil fuels.

I neglected to carpool

and squandered the long-weekend

with a double-feature at the Lux.

I confess:

I long to cause wanton erosion and savour succulent berries.

I crave a blaze during fire ban.

Oh, and one more thing:,

I covet my neighbour’s

hi-tech gear. 

Be gracious to me now, O Rockies.

May your awesome views blot out  my transgressions,

may your waterfalls cleanse me of my iniquity and purge me of my sloth.

In penance, I offer a prayer:

Hail Hiker, tight of lace,

blisters are with thee.

Blessed art thou amongst locals

and blessed is the brand of thy boot Merrell.

Holy Hiker, like unto god,

pray for us lazy sonsabitches

now and at the summit of Everest,

oh yeah.

 
Contrite Banffite by Monica Meneghetti is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at www.monicameneghetti.com.

very close, very wet

very close, very wet

The river floods.

Tamarind seeds do not sprout.

Supermarket-roasted chicken falls apart.

I use toilet paper to blow my nose.

But we have a new bar of soap.

A healthy heart beats inside the dirty girl.

A silver blaze rides the haunch of a dark grizzly.

I lie awake in the glow,

the bright mystery

of who I was

between Junes.

Full moon at perigee.

Millenial flood.

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.

In September, my friends

In September, my friends

drink deep the dregs of summer, the honey

light and backlit leaves.

Let your bones be wild

strawberries beneath the waning awning.

Let summer rise

away like dust around hooves

heading home.

Let your hands shed their tan

finger by finger

like velvet gloves after the masque.

Let these weeks like rivers

glide past as though buoyed by an inkling of oil.

Then, when frost creeps in on green grass

you may glimpse your beloved's hair

suddenly white.

In September, my friends by Monica Meneghetti is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at www.monicameneghetti.com.