A poem by Michele Provenzano

Trees stand tall all around me.
I stand tall, as well, as I peek over the edge of this cliff
and gaze down at the street below: the street that marks
the edge of the city, that hugs the curves
of the Fraser River. I let the scent of fresh rain on dry earth
wash over me while admiring the orange-tinted clouds
that so rarely sweep the skies. A winding trail runs
from the top of the cliff to a lower plateau
and down it I run, a desperate attempt to get closer
to those colours, that winter afternoon masterpiece.
But I trip on an unidentifiable object buried in the soil:
Rusted metal, bent wire, cloth. It’s so easy to forget
that this park was built upon the city’s old landfill.
Orange turns to pink, as the sun sets
upon the greenery that grows from the garbage.

This work was featured in issue #9