Expatriate

The Hawaiians are surprised that we also had beaches. 
            In their minds we represent one vast igloo 
            Filled with people anxious to escape 
            To winter in Hawaii. 

They do not wonder that we rank second only to Koreans 
            In numbers of illegal aliens here. 
            They only wonder why Canadians become Canadians 
            Short of the accident of birth 
             And to be honest, now that I’m away, I wonder too. 

No Empire Loyalists, my grandparents, both sides, 
            Came up from Utah at the century’s turn 
            As if inheriting the rootlessness of Scottish ancestors. 
            Called by a prophet, 
             They wintered in tents in South Alberta 
            To which I only shudder admiration 
            After thirty-four Canadian winters. 

True, I’m glad I no longer have to shovel out ten times a year
            The snow’s thick packing-in on Dussault Avenue 
            Where the elegant illusion of our driveway stretched dramatically.
            Nor do I yearn for freezing toes and fingers, ice-slicked streets,
            Or storms of summer mosquitoes. 

But I do miss the drum rolls of “O Canada,” 
            The weight of blankets on chill winter nights, 
            Old friends, 
            And the thirteen hours from Winnipeg to Lethbridge 
            Across endless summer prairie. 

And my children: will they praise or blame me, 
            Having led them from tundra to this paradise 
            Where our bleached faces separate us 
            Into, yet again, a foreign generation?