Action

'Tis movement, and action defines life for me,
Restrained from much moving I don't wish to be;
These years here as stranded like whale on the beach,
Have taken my substance like blood to a leech.

I guess it's in balance – years forty or more,
I ran over-heated till balance restored;
No giver restrained all the actions I did,
Then, calmed me to stillness their awkwardness rid.

I hopped on my way with no balance in gate,
Hard work, out of balance, did not hesitate
To enter in life with abandon and glee,
Not knowing that “giver” was big part of me.

So stopping, reflecting, as giver caught up
Was helpful, assisted by road that was rough;
But now it is action I long for again –
Not sitting on sidelines to quite remain.

I long to move on now, with both legs at work –
First left foot then right foot, not hop-step-and-jerk;
I've had it with watching while life whirls by –
I'd settle for speed like the next girl and guy.

The tempo of life in this area's slow
(Not really, but seems like, all covered with snow);
But not when I'm acting, reacting to things,
For then there is laughter which active-life brings.

First job's all that's offered by this little town,
Unless as a helper, one dons cap and gown;
Then off to the world one must go for one's task,
That's all of this city that any can ask.

But there is an aspect that's set for a fix,
As Brandon moves upward from “place in the sticks”;
(Which won't be forever – till meat-plant shuts down
That's when this fair city reverts to a town.

Folks think it's forever, they don't see the curve,
At most it's a giggle, round obstacles swerve;
But business has cycles, economies shift –
Today's hope and blessings a chocolate gift –

It lasts for a moment, enjoyment as shared,
The fireside's endless as stories compared;
Then back to the real, as fire goes out;
And Brandon returns to a stop on the route).

In history here it's where river meets sea –
It pushes back salt for a mile or three;
The point where there's tumult of salty and clear,
Is whirl when urban flows into the weir.

I'm rural-in-urban way back to my roots –
I'm comfy in blue jeans, in woollies, and suits;
In tanned-leather buckskin, and spit-polished shoes –
I am rural-in-urban, whatever I do.

So bridging that gap – on each bank rests a foot –
It's over such framework folks walk in their work;
Without comprehending two sides of this town
One's tripped by the other, then both tumble down.

So maybe as blue sky returns on this day
From time of ice crystals, fog, hoar-frost that lay
So quiet, serene, winter-wonderland here,
There's work to be done on a task which is clear –

Depicting this town with its treasures untold,
Where folks catch their breath, move from timid to bold;
Where info and training, a first step along
As folks then re-enter their life in the throng.

A “city of healing” as Billy B. said,
They come here expectant of life from the dead;
Like pool at Bethsaida, it's more than a place –
No Lourdes, just some quiet from turbulent race.

I’d need confirmation; updating of here;
A tapping of sectors; depiction that's clear;
Of rural-in-urban; not life that is past –
Right here where it mixes – no city that's vast.

Four Whisky-Jacks feed on some grain in the snow,
They jostle each other then two of them go;
My feeder's like Brandon, a stop on their way –
Their stop is quite vital, but short their day.

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