Joy

Along a sidewalk

a flower openly displays

its passion for life.

“A flower blossoms for its own joy.”

~ Oscar Wilde

Treats

Tiny Tim Tomatoes

Plucked, eaten and savoured ~

they never had a chance.

“Even though you’re growing up, 

you should never stop having fun.”

~ Nina Dobrev

Survivors ~ 2

Blushing tomatoes

drink deeply from thirsty roots

despite the smoky air.

“I have a real survivor’s instinct.”

~ Elizabeth Diller

Drift

Low tide - White Rock, B.C.

The smoke filled air

shadows Earth’s dome of blue

roaming on uncertain currents.

“I think there will be more smiles when the smoke clears.”

~ Shaun Alexander

On the Edge ~ 1

August 2017 on Number One
on the way through Alberta
Last years forest fire.

We’re on the edge of a crucible ~

a crucible of roaring, raging fire and wind

long flicking fingers of flame grasping at fuel

across and into the forest floor of once peaceful debris.

Greedily licking 

crumbling bark before

consuming ancient trees only to send
bursts of cruel embers and ash ~

scouts and emissaries tracking

more fuel to feed the hungry beast

set loose by man.

But we’re only on the edge ~

Smoke, clinging to trees and buildings

darkening the air, hangs breathlessly

carrying particles, gases and moisture

as it drifts away from the crucible

into our cities and towns, farms and villages.

But we’re only on the edge

where the sun throws pale shadows

glowing eerily orange through 

frayed remnants of the firestorm.

Ghostly fragments reach stealthily

into lungs and burrow into life

while I do my laundry.

But we’re only on the edge ~

the edge of a crucible

where brave souls edge 

closer to fire-hot edges of heat and flame.

Miniature gladiators battle passionately 

against the Earth’s angry response 

to humanity’s carelessness, disrespect and greed.

“Aside from forest fire, there’s nothing to be afraid of in the woods, 

except yourself. If you’ve got sense, you can keep out of trouble. 

If you haven’t got sense, you’ll get into trouble, here or anywhere else.”

~ Louise Dickinson Rich, We Took to the Woods

Community Action on the Prairies

So many of us forget where our food comes from. Most of us, especially those raised in urban areas, don’t know the people that grow our food. My dad was a farmer. Most of his friends were farmers and if they weren’t, they were working within our small farming community. Teaching us, running our grocery stores, selling farm machinery, creating active church communities, teaching figure skating, guiding the 4-H Club members and so very much more. Long freight trains stopped at our grain elevators to load and carry the grains grown to far flung markets after all the dirty dusty work that our farmers had done. As a child raised on one of those farms, I saw the green heavy headed wheat, blue flowered flax and yellow flowered canola grown in vast fields on either sides of dusty dirt roads. Our gardens grew most of our food as did the gardens of other community members.

Milestone was a community that pulled together to feed each family whether home or farther afield. At any time of extreme need at seeding or harvest time, whoever was available brought machinery and food to plant or to harvest the large fields waiting for the farmer’s hand. Yesterday on Facebook, I saw that same passion in action following the death of a long time community member. Milestone, Saskatchewan still is a community that pulls together. Twenty farmers with their combines, four giant grain carts cleared this man’s wheat fields to ease the burden on the family, along with as many friends and neighbours that could help. To the all farmers and their families, I salute you and thank you.

“The greatness of a community is most accurately measured 

by the compassionate actions of its members.”
~  Coretta Scott King

Fragments ~ 2

Fragments

“Do you remember Sundays in the old days? I s’pose you are too young to remember my old days. After all I am your grandmother. That was just silly of me. Why don’t I try to paint you a picture - not in real paint - I’ll just tell you a story. There were always hats. New hats every Easter.”

Grandmother Sarah looked off into the distance as if trying to conjure up those days. She started to hum quietly. I just listened and watched as her thinning lips barely moved to old familiar words. It wasn’t even close to Easter but her memories as they surfaced were a wonderful connection with a Grandmother I was slowly losing. Her soft wrinkled skin, made even softer when she smiled, was beautiful with her storied memories. 

“Tell me about the hats, Grandmother. What were they like?”

“Were we talking about hats? What kind of hats, dear? Oh yes, Easter hats. Well, everyone in the family, except the men of course, got new Easter bonnets. They weren’t like the bonnets with big shiny ribbons that tied under your chin. I hated those - still do! Never could stand anything tied under my chin. I felt like I was choking. Even when the nurse tucks my blankets up close over my neck and under my chin.”

Tears welled in her gray-blue eyes that only a moment before had been shining with the passion of old memories. It had only taken a second. I should have been used to the sudden shifts in emotion after the last six years of her declining health ~ it always made me sad. I wanted to bundle her up and take her home with me, but even a hug could frighten her. So I gently touched her arm to remind her that I was there with her.

“Those Easter bonnets must have been beautiful.”

“Beautiful and fun! And when we went to church, everybody looked at everybody else’s to see who had new hats and who was wearing the same old hat with new ribbons or flowers on it!”

“Let’s walk a bit, Grandmother. My old knees are getting stiff sitting on this bench.”

“Old knees? Why, you must be the same age as my granddaughter and she is definitely not old. Where do you want to walk to?  I’m not sure I should be with you.”

“But Grandmother, I am your grand-daughter. See here’s a picture of us with mother and dad.”

“Well, I don’t know where that came from but I do recognize everyone, just can’t remember their names.”

Now the tears were welling up in my eyes. We had been walking toward a nurse coming across the lawn to meet us. At one time I resented these strangers taking care of my Grandmother, but now I was grateful for people that cared passionately for my very special Grandmother. I knew she was safe from the outside world of everyday life, even while her inside world got more frightening for her. The nurse suggested to me that the inside world may grow quieter, but until then I would listen to Grandmother’s stories piece by piece.

“What was scattered gathers.

What was gathered blow away.”

~ Heraclitus