A Bus Along St. Clair: December by Margaret Atwood

It would take more than that to banish me:
this is my kingdom still.
Turn, look up
Through the gritty window: an unexplained
wilderness of wires.

Though they buried me in monuments
of concrete slabs, of cables
though they mounted a pyramid
of cold light over my head
though they said, we will build silver paradise
with a bulldozer

it shows how little they know about vanishing:
I have my ways of getting through.

Right now, the snow is no more familiar to you than it was to me: this is my doing.
The grey air, the roar going on behind it
are no more familiar.

I am the old woman sitting across from you on the bus,
her shoulders drawn up like a shawl;
Out of her eyes come secret hatpins, destroying the walls,
the ceiling

Turn, look down:
there is no city;
this is the center of a forest

Your place is empty.

A Monument

Susanna Moodie

Resting Place: Belleville, Ontario

THE MORNING HOUR by Susanna Moodie

Like a maid on her bridal morn I rise,
With the smile on her lip and the tear in her eyes;
Whilst the breeze my crimson banner unfurls,
I wreathe my locks with the purest pearls;
Brighter diamonds never were seen
Encircling the neck of an Indian queen!
I traverse the east on my glittering wing,
And my smiles awake every living thing;
And the twilight hour like a pilgrim gray,
Follows the night on her weeping way.
I raise the veil from the saffron bed,
Where the young sun pillows his golden head;
He lifts from the ocean his burning eye,
And his glory lights up the earth and sky.

Ah, I am like that dewy prime,
Ere youth hath shaken hands with time;
Ere the fresh tide of life has wasted low,
And discovered the hidden rocks of woe:
When like the rosy beams of morn,
Joy and gladness and love were born,
Hope divine, of heavenly birth,
And pleasure that lightens the cares of earth!

Beautiful Winds and Blue Skies