OFF-SEASON
I rest the sword across my knees
and lean against the garden gate.
I check my pocket for the keys.
The trees are heavy with their fruit.
You may discern, at orchard's end,
by what scant light the moon affords,
two meagre figures, hand in hand,
diminishing horizonwords.
Peopled, Eden was, it's true,
a pleasant park in which to ramble;
I myself once found it so.
But empty it's a better symbol.
from Undercurrents: New Voices in Canadian Poetry
Ed. Robyn Sarah (Cormorant Books, 2011)
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