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As Spring Yields to Summer

As Spring Yields to Summer I only see her when she’s out, the woman across the way, pushing her lawnmower that has no engine, the grating of squeaky wheels, its whirling, rusty blades, the sound of a hundred haircuts. A fumeless, slicing symphony, the grass wafting fresh and green. Day and night through my windowsill

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Late March

Late March The deck has collected a weight of snow. How else to describe that body? Laying flat across the foot of the door blocking my exit, detailing the railings as snow swirls on winds that howl like voices in the channel where roof meets the walls of my shelter during a mid-winter storm. In

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The Big Ask

As if unknowns have not always been nearby, hovering at edge of sight, beyond reach but closing in now, still unknown. All our questions rise without reply. Peace workers, be praised. May you multiply until there’s no more need. May you rest till the rest is easy. May your harvest be in health not death,

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Opal Dusk

Opal Dusk Sun sets in the west birdsong is a background lullaby. Pinks weave with blues that mingle with amber. The opal dusk summons creatures of the night – the dark side of life. Golden owl eyes light a silent flight path. Masked scavengers hunt and cavort. The fragrance of an alabaster moonflower tantalizes a

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My Human Identity

My Human Identity I am a social construct. Word upon word like blood. Image upon image like flesh. A technicolour film Of places and stories I have lived through. I am walking, breathing memory. Frame by frame repository Of history’s collective thoughts In my seemingly separate cranium. I walk this Earth for a slice of

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On Writing

for Norma When I arrived at her door, she called from her chair, Don’t take off your shoes— but I did out of habit, sinking into the couch, bewildered with half-finished poems—mostly, she let them walk into the dark but one time she said, A poem wants life. I’d stand beneath cottonwood trees, listening to

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Where Are You Now

In memory of Norma West Linder I have photos of us standing by painted moose in Toronto, standing next to Pierre Burton, beside other poets, in taverns and living rooms. I wonder where you are now, Spirit Island girl. Arranging letters in some heavenly Scrabble game? Sitting on a park bench under lemon trees humming

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From Teacher to Friend

I first met Norma West Linder at Lambton College in Sarnia when I attended her evening Creative Writing class. I had never taken a writing class—I hadn’t even told anyone I wanted to be a writer. Just the thought of meeting someone who was a writer made me nervous. I had written a long poem

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At The Lake Alone

In loving memory of Norma West Linder September 4, 1928 – August 26, 2023 Winter entered with November, the first frost falling on All Souls’ Day. Overnight, the yellow leaves of my mulberry became clenched brown fists, late-blooming coneflowers shriveled. For once the lake lay subdued, its great trout rising towards the surface, the air

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Norma-lly

I first met Norma West Linder at a local writers’ group called Writers in Transition. Over the years, she was a kind, gentle, and encouraging mentor who assisted many with the craft of writing. In addition to being a prolific writer, she was an avid Scrabble player. I regret not playing the game with her,

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