Ottawa Experimental Farm

The farm in fall is a harvest of geese
necks erect, offered for cropping.

In winter a sculpture by wind,
dunes of snow, sharp shadows 

a glass house banked in white,¬ guarding
moist green, perfume of fertile earth.

The farm is Victorian barns, Queen Anne house, remnant 
woodlot – pine, oak, ash – mulched by seasons of leaves.

It was a patient teacher: this nut from this tree, with this name
full moon up close in the Dominion Observatory

slide of toboggans
slippery climb holding Dad’s hand

stroll after church through peony gardens
art deco pool where brass frogs spat, pennies splashed.

The farm is a blurred morning after, small hand in mine. 
My son breathes the scents of cows, covets their size.

Rest for a drydocked barge, hostel
for snowy owls and clustered cameras

fox crossing the midnight
road, a line of red

fence posts sharpened like pencils.

© Jean Van Loon