Archive for April 22nd, 2009



The way the soft

first light trickles

through needles

of black spruce,

as water works

its slow but certain

path through rock.


The way mosses

and lichen precede

birch and pine,

take root on stark

granite slabs,

become a garden

to court the sun.

Glen Sorestad


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Hearth and Hope

I can do everything except braid hair.

– a dad

best not leave not while she’s your shadow

your hand in hand your stop ‘n go slow

look both ways cross green

grass swings sandbox teeter totter mommy

daughter doctor doctor

daddy does the cooking now

soup scrambled eggs toast soldiers soldiering on

whites darks wash ‘n wear tumbled dry

hair brushed combed not braided (you tried; she cried)

best not leave while she needs bedtime queens fairies

red riding hood one more cinderella

you’re the fella at home keeping hearth and hope

for high dose chemotherapy radiation blood stem cell

transplantation intravenous lines

running running running

Katherine Lawrence

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Prairie Storm

but of sea half is earth, half lightning storm…Herakleitos


Bargaining faith for sleep, you see light stir at the window, white

hissing above the crow-knuckled elms, exposing the wet furrows

of the seeded fields cooling after the longest day of the year.

The turning. Air thickening electric, forks bulging with spark.  Imagine

an axe behind the clouds, splitting the moon apart for stars. Always,

there is sacrifice. Rising on sea legs you watch the aspen convulse

under buckled air, and you ride; water, wind, light thrash

and you ride the swell, hollow as a gourd, a cup emptied

of any purpose but this: to be drenched in stupefied gratitude.

Always, there is a gift. In the morning, oak leaves

drying like tears on the field. The sun and your footfall, new.

A killdeer, shrieking.

Lorri Neilsen is a poet and essayist who lives and works in Nova Scotia and Saskatchewan.

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