Canvassing

It was the day the planes stopped,
Volcanic dust, invisibly ending the to and fro,
Clear skies, but for those tiny particles,
Expelled from the deep earth somewhere
Where sagas are made.

Yes that day, when winter finally shed
It’s ill-cured furs, sending blossom
Upwards towards those empty skies
Reminding anyone who’d listen
Of what can pass for silence.

There must’ve been an election on,
Because leaflets whirled in the surprising
April wind, amongst that fragile blossom
Carrying promises more timid
Than fruit on city trees

It was that day, I imagined you
Suddenly years away from now,
Holding my hand and throwing
Leaflets into silent spring air sending
Their stories up like blossom.