Residuals

“Residuals” I called it though I'm not sure why I did,
It's fluffy purple tissue-paper pasted like bridge,
With positive and negative from cut-outs which I made –
Ten little fellers in a chain, with template over-laid.

To me emerged three basic things – that life was made of both
The cut-outs and left-over chunks like water around some boats
Which needed to have separation, figure from the ground,
As each defined the other's shape when viewers looked around.

The color stood for royalty – that's Jesus in the Church
Two incidents of blessing were – one left me in the lurch:
“Ten little Injuns” came to mind from school-art days of yore,
When racist aspects were up-front and people kept a score.

For it's that way both in this town and church society;
She wore her sash, “This is my tribe – Métis identity”.
Great courage that, to be herself, and lead in worship song,
But great affirming she pulled off as singing moved along.

The other saw what he had missed –“Aha! I see it now”
Then sought to grab the chips and run, “Consult with it somehow”;
I shook my head in disbelief – three levels out of four –
But let it go, “residuals” all scattered on the floor.

Last week was hard as folks went back to university,
Or work, or college – tough that one – direction hard to see.
I chose to hold the course, not shift, keep seeking out my way;
Not to fall back to depression now – from canyon skirt away.

For good parts come from doing that (“the bridge out -- don't go there”)
I'd pushed all summer roundabout, advice I took with care.
But funny how “residuals” were what was left for me,
The process came from years of work – looks simple when they see.

But in the final product there are people dancing ’round,
Connected in a unity, with feet far off the ground;
Attached, yet light and delicate, expressing inward glee
Louis Riel that vision had – of Cree, and white – Métis –

All dancing with a joie-de-vive – the basis of our place,
Where we as one would live in faith as mixed-up folks by race;
Where figure and the ground were both what made the picture clear,
While folks got on with life and worked things out in province here –

Where positive and negative gave meaning to each other;
Where early ties made better life as sisters and as brothers;
Where some would grab the chips and run, such were the ways of men;
And with what's left – residuals – we'd shape our lives again.

For life is flow, not zero-sum; like Crees say, “What the heck
Do what you will, as that you choose, my turn is coming yet –
You gotta do as gotta do, then I'll do just the same –
There's plenty here for everyone, that's how we play life's game.”

In mean-time let's join hands, and sing, and dance in joy.
And laugh together, lightly touch our footprint on the ground;
A pipe of peace I see is here, and hearts quite open now,
And little kids take up the dance – bones come to life somehow.

The river and creek-beds fill with water here and there;
The dead who rest beneath the soil have moon in silent air;
The butterflies flit through the scene; a bowl of soup pours out;
We'll “Raise a cup of kindness yet”, quite shielded from a route.

The fabric of our source is torn, from ground to figure make;
But seeing what is left for us – no bread but there is cake;
And lakes with bays on map I see where we could start again;
Take what you wish, the best is left, dance rises from our pain.

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