Amber Sunshine

The Stamp River, above Stamp Falls

Amber sunshine calls me

down the road

through drifting leaves

of saffron, umber, gold.

One might be

inclined to think

with this

the whole story

already

has been

told.

But the smell of

burning leaves

carries me back

to bygone days:

crisp winter

afternoons,

mix of lowering gray

and purple haze,

the rising of the moon,

and I'm walking

home from school

inside the falling dark,

pungent breath of smoke,

leaf-rot, dry bark,

in the dead-leaf-scented air.

Lights glow in all the windows

for homes are everywhere.

I always am outside

a wanderer looking in,

and this is where

my search for home

begins.

In darkening dusky yards

men would be raking,

as hungry dogs

barked their dinners in,

I shivering in my coat

that's blue and thin,

hollow and hungry,

not expecting

to be fed,

my spirit

flying

looking for

a place to land.

Only now

do I begin to

understand

my pilgrimage-

and how

surely,

if obscurely,

I was led.

Outside the warmth

of other peoples' lives,

stoically trudging

through the crackle and the gloom,

I walked past

all the perfect picket fences,

up the stairs,

opened the door

into the stale and empty rooms.

From there to here,

so many autumn fires,

so many roads less traveled,

houses I wrapped around me

like a shell.

Only three were homes,

out of them all.

Still, every fall

leaf-smoke smell

wafting gently

on the air

transports me to Kelowna.

For moments I am aware

that once again

I am fourteen

and such a sad

and lonely pilgrim

there.