Perspective
Gray Jacobik

That tiny figure in the distance, an eighth of an inch tall,
Is my husband walking back from the ferry,
Picking up the groceries ordered from Skibbereen.
He's walking down a serpentine hill that rounds
The harbor wall. Soon he'll vanish as he climbs
The two hills this side of me, then suddenly,
Around a hedgerow of blooming blackberry,
Fuchsia and grasses, he'll appear nearly full-sized,
Smiling, cheerful, holding out the twine-wrapped box
He's carried two kilometers. I like him so close
His face becomes obscured in my near-sightedness,
And at this eight-inch size as well, his distinct gait
Visible even from this distance, so that I can spot him
In a crowd the way a mother sees a child across
Several playing fields, in profile, even from
The back and knows it's hers.  He's known by me,
Although, at times, he surprises me as he did
Last night when he picked up a rock and smashed
The mortar sealing a farmer's gate latch because
He wanted access to private property, so damaged
Property to get it. So out of character, this act,
It's taken me aback. Back to where? To the time
Before we came into one another's sphere, strangers.
Perhaps we never know the one we think we know
So intimately, the unpredictable predictably to erupt
And dislodge our preconceptions, the way the heart
Of life is erratic and wild, and each of us is autonomous
And free, and I've yet to speak to you of my dismay.

Ontario Review #50