This week, spurred by my participation in a local poetry workshop, I pulled a back issue of Room of One’s Own, the Canadian feminist literary journal, off the shelf. It served as a reminder that truth often arrives in the simplest of pictures, the fewest of words. Such as those of Ann Scowcroft:

iv. the wind

I stand next to him. He wears patched
coveralls and a straw hat.
He is pointing at the walnut’s leaves showing their grey-green
undersides, rattling in the south-easterly wind.
It’s going to rain, he says. You can tell by the leaves.
I am six.
I believe him.
Everything he says is true.