lemon blur

I watch you dart past,
a lemon blur,
your swimsuit two crisp lines on your small frame,
delight, swaddled in laughter,
ricochets off each pine tree,
hangs in the air

I caught sight of the memory,
a lemon blur,
pulled it down from the sky
with my butterfly net,
swaddled it into
the small of my heart

here I am

here I am, a body of memories:

the feet of a walker, coarse and flattened,

thousands of miles have I roamed.

feet that carried the weight of fluctuations

between body love and body shame.

ankles that were cursedly passed on

thick and boney, yet never failing.

calves that connect to the worst joint of

this body of memories: the knees,

the targets of frustrated students.

too many kicks, too many times,

knees that cannot ever decide

whether or not to give out on the stairs.

here I am, a body of memories,

a painful sciatic nerve sending sharp

reminders to move. no, lie still.

belly of Buddha, plump and rolling,

memories of salty and savoury.

here I am, a body of memories

a heart full of love for decades old babies

who nestled all snug in my womb and

now live contently in the small of my heart.

the neck that says oh, what a wonderful

life you have lived full of sunshine unfettered.

here I am, a body of memories,

a face with stories of laughter and

sunburns and a tree in the woods.

eyes of a father, mom’s cute button nose,

a head of hair that wavers between

mousey and the shining grey of later life.

here I am, a body of memories,

a woman of a certain age.


something from the summer I want to remember would be

the mornings at the cottage, each one filled with anticipation,

a sense of possibility, those butterflies I have missed in this

‘unprecedented time’

possibility, anticipatory joy

those beautiful feelings have left the dance floor

they no longer tango through my mind, or

swing by to take me by the hand and spin me

into the future

but on the dock, as I looked up and down the river

I felt hopeful, anxious – the good kind – the kind that

makes small children inhale their food so they can

‘get life going already!’

not me.

I took my bowl of oatmeal, resplendent with

summer berries and sat in the sunshine,

and I inhaled

the possibilities of the day

it’s spring, so

thanks to Firefly Creative Writing for two weeks of bringing me to the page at their morning coffee sessions


it’s spring, so

I want to touch nature

I want to walk

on aged pathways

head through fields

earth untrodden

places I’ve never seen

high in the mountains

down in the meadows

it’s spring, so

I want to be

out venturing in

the world

standing below the

cherry trees

in Trinity Bellwoods

walking among the

people of the city

watching the pugs

in their t-shirts

greet one another

at each end of

their perfect


it’s spring, so

I want to be

taking off

the wooden eye covers

of the little house

in the woods

raking pine needles

I abandoned

in my October rush

to begin a 19-day

bedside vigil

it’s spring, so

I want to be airing

out rooms

wiping down cupboards

to be filled

with staples

I want to fold

fresh linens and

place them in neat piles

on the shelves

fill the wood box

that imperfectly

perfect structure

I made with D.K.

it’s spring, so

I want to pull on

my wetsuit over

my winterized body

take my paddleboard

onto the river

and pretend it’s


it’s spring, so

I want to go to

the fruit stand

and buy too many

pots of flowers

that will burn in

the late August sun

I want to walk in

a half-marathon

that torturous


that age has not

sidelined me yet

it’s spring, so

I want to sit

at a table just

inside the door of

my favourite café

get too hot

when the sun

streams in

I want to

turn my face

in the direction

of children discovering

a trail of ants

I want to hear

wonder and


laughter and gossip

it’s spring, so

I want to

see and touch and


all the things

that make me