Expressions of Love

I need no reminder
that I am the mother
of your children, nor
my memory nudged of
all the years that 
have passed since
that long-ago time
when we, scarce out
of our own childhoods
knew that our lives
would be spent in this
tandem of companionship
where you smile me into
happiness and transport
me to comfort, by my
side, indefatigable
in your many, varied
expressions of love.

Memories

Those of recent vintage

abrade our emotions

carrying us to a dark

deep place of longing

and despair.  We lurch

from sorrow to a celebration 

of her life with us in the 

mellowed memories of our 

adventures our joys in life, 

she beside us, delving 

as deeply as did we

in all those experiences

long past and therein

lies our sole comfort.

Abandoned

It is a street like all others

that structure the urban

landscape; orderly, solidly

middle-class, pride in 

ownership evident in those

neat facades nicely painted,

gardens and lawns spruced

for spring, and the bypassing

eye sees nothing remarkable

until it is arrested by the

bleak sight of one home in the

complacent neighbourly

row of houses whose 

windows are boarded and

where telltale black singes

have marred the even colour

of brick and siding.  The

house, looking bleak,

forlorn, even puzzled

at its sheer misfortune 

as though grieving for the

yesterday when all was normal 

in its pride of presence,

children's voices echoing 

in the halls, responding

to a mother's call to assemble

for the family meal.

Friends

Each time I espie him

my heart leaps and warms.

I so admire his bold spunkiness

and intelligence, his curiosity

and carefully surmised 

conclusion that he would 

have much to gain by offering

me his friendship.  I reciprocate

in the only way that a tailless 

squirrel might appreciate,

greeting him familiarly by

name and never without an

edible gift.  The sound of his

name expressed by my voice

can draw him from within

quite a territorial radius.  He

is patient, awaiting the largest

peanut in my sack, leaping

confidently off with it,

resembling nothing so much

as a small black rabbit.

Tofino

Backpack nestled in old-growth cedar

Photos courtesyof J.S. Rosenfeld

Hello Garden

Hello garden, my old friend,

nice of you to visit, yet

again.  It is true that an

ounce of bright renewal

can banish a half-year's-worth

of pining regret for what

once gave insouciant impetus

to the wondrous glory of life.

So glad to see you've survived

another winter's excess of 

unforgiving rancour; the miserable

blasts of that season have left

us reeling in dismayed disbelief,

relieved now by the benevolence

of spring's balming essence.

We bask in warmth, gentle rain

and unblinking sun beaming

permission to tender shoots

emerging from rich, damp soil.

So, hello you tulips and daffodils.

Welcome back, clematis, hydrangea

honeysuckle.  So good to see you,

bergenia, glorious Magnolia!

Without Doubt

Without doubt, things are

changing.  This is a lovely day.

Gone the incessant rain events,

the unseasonable spring flirtation 

with that winter reluctant to depart.

Finally, the sun is out to dry

drenched landscapes where

forsythia, tulips, daffodils and

dandelions anxiously vie for

attention and acclaim as the

first of the season, earning

our grateful adulation.

And you seat yourself 

awkwardly in the waiting room

crowded with people, wondering

exactly what you're doing there,

amongst those who are grossly

overweight and pitifully underweight,

bent crooked, stumbling, unwilling

to meet the eye of a stranger.  You

wonder why it was you dressed to

ward off cool, damp weather

and now feel constricted, hot.

Names are called and those

waiting respond, tottering to

the inner offices, their faces 

peaked, lined, pale, concerned.

You return to your book, the one

you read only in such places, a

tedious novel to match a tedious

process.  And that is why you are

there, the process today includes

electrodes and a weekend-worn

heart monitor.  Your doctor

exhibits rather peculiar whimsies.