An Old Poem from an old time in QC

 

On seeing the skating rink in Quebec City

 

 mostly melted, statue Muses

nearly nude, no snow-fur trim

on their dark metallic drapes,

looking over and out

on Place D’Youville pavers

as if already nostalgic

for human beings to come around,

make occasional easy eights

in the ice with their skates

 

today still cold but not enough

for authentic rinks to resist

running off to join (one thinks)

the flow of the St. Lawrence

 

going home then to sit musing

at my one window, on the alley,

until a memory of Detroit glides by

of winter-rented house

with backyard on another alley

revealing in spring a sunken garden

much smaller than this oval

in Québec (named also for

being where a river narrows,

as is Detroit, d’étroit)

 

with black soil moist with melted winter

become sudden home for tall tulips

taking hundreds of shades from infinity,

too many for a child to try to name,

each with a black star at inner center depth,

each a magnificent surprise.