The women's minds are inundated with sun and air and dreams of how their bodies were once forever. Nobody knows they once were loved by Joseph sagging beside them, a scholar of green things, replying with his shaky hands to the open speech of summer, once so sure that what he wrote in the ground would turn away death. He silently stares, distrusts the garden that waits for him to go, for it, he knows, will always be here. All growing things now hold his tongue hostage and his heart feels the earth will never forgive him for his pride but pull him as surely as he once pulled weeds with hands as gnarled and browned now as dead roots. Under iron girders, bird dung drop abandoned now, a parkinglot railspurred.
Blueprints twine up trailer walls.
Fifty-year effort strong, long suspended, holds aloft spans, girders, serried granite ranks. Yet still mutely shaping Vancouver city. WHAT'S NEW Stories and poems that appear on this Web site, by members of the West End Writers' Club, are for your personal use only and may not be copied except in accordance with international copyright law.