It was a stowaway,
a colourful hat worn through customs
by the daughter
of an immigrant mining family.
It flew out of a couch's pastel
patterns, a musty
living-room spirit drawn to the wallpaper's vines.
It was perpetual: it poked
holes in the children's snowsuits.
It talked to shovels, the snow puddles
drying in the porch. It was curiosity
all covered with feathers:
summer trying to understand
the thermometer's fall.
It must have looked at winter
with the ambition
of a suntan salesman:
seeing its chance to make millions,
it flew out an open window,
flapping like an assembly of flags.
It was a collection of salvation
a hang-glider in a hailstorm,
a sea urchin arguing
with an assembly of waves.
It must have flown for blocks:
its lungs going asthmatic,
drying like wrinkled apricots
while the chambers of its heart
migrated to opposite poles.
It disappeared into us,
into the extended forecast,
the woods' imagination,
the street lights' stationary tribe.