Each year, the city’s tendrils creep closer
to the ruins of the farmhouse of your
birth. Our family’s firstborn Canadian.
When you were only two weeks old,
the census taker spelled your name wrong,
unable to understand your parents.
No matter. You thrived like the prairie grasses
and now I am here: more than a hundred
years later, only a few miles away,
part of these urban rhythms, bearing witness
as this city that was your future consumes
my past beneath this holy, expansive sky.