Heaven

Though no cherry blossom trees
intoxicate Cote-Des-Neiges street,
Cote-Des-Neiges is heaven still –
in light of the One sitting here
that wears a dress, white, polka-dot brown,
a memory bestowing a crown,
zenith of summer. Even four or five
blocks away of construction sound,
even humidity flashing its ponderous style
is lightened by her loving smile.
What might have spawned many restless nights,
what might have fallen as torrential rain,
what might have begun to burgeon, like blights,
or inflame fear, fashion cynicism, disdain
are absent in light of the beloved here.
What once was the weight of the world’s
too weak, too timid to come near –
or the weight transfigured and purified.
She carries wisdom and insight allied
to deep sleep – and its refreshment.
Death is herself (myself) intensified.
Without her, though Cote-Des-Neiges street
be construction-free and replete
with cherry blossoms, heaven wouldn’t be,
any wealth and accolades still poverty.
However many countries would have me,
whatever spring and summer infuse foreign air,
I’d still carry my prison with me there.

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