Poetry

The sky opens it always does. From here to the lake the freshly born birds fall pink onto the streets from all the standing trees. I open my arms to …

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Calgary. The twenties. Cold, and the sweet melt of chinooks. A musical weather. World rippling and running. World watery with flutes. And woodwinds. The wonder of water in that icy …

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Life lived through a topaz. My memory is of a beautiful garden, a swimming pool with Olympic proportions in which the pink house proudly mirrored itself. At night it was …

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Montreal. The forties. Calèches. The snow as high as a house. Grey stone. The French. And a room of one’s own. Smoky souchong for tea. Alone but not lonely. My …

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Last night the memory of her mother walked out into the parking lot of the Long Rail Tavern at precisely five minutes to twelve. Where her tears fell, tiny puffs …

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Impatient: You had visited the day of purchase, Dates each had costumed. Every item on own Hanger, recalled the fabric, as I pushed each Room. Was emptied; then began the …

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In the eye of sleep, brushing against some spelunker’s rope, the mind comes undone and stitches memories to dreams. Who will imagine that within the wriggling and miraculous morning estuary …

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Today I raked the last of the leaves and apples, our dog, my dog, Frank, running laps with his green ring, irritated. You crossed my mind, as you do each …

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Rain drops— an inverted flock hanging on blue laundry line Rain weights radiant clematis petals white to earth Rain gleams dull surfaces darkens others The bounce, the tap, pelt, pinprick, …

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Before I read this first poem I should tell you that my paternal grandfather had a gold pocket watch with a lid over the watch’s face. In his later years …

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