in Three .. Two .. One.

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The year of the flood ended with the  girl standing  in the haar, green grass beneath the soles of her boots, waiting. The Red water still flowed through her prairie town and this year, her neighbours did not complain about the cold and police did not fear finding frozen bodies on the river's edge.

This year, children asked their parents why they couldn't skate the river, and the men wondered when they would be revving up their Polaris for the inaugural winter ride over their snow covered fields. But the natives were happy. With open arms, they accepted Mother Nature's apology for the flood that had swept them off their land nine long months ago.

They had found new hope in the green Christmas, and men from the city helped them to start building new homes. Plank by plank, they worked together to replace the mould-infested ones sitting silent and empty on Lake Winnipeg.  Still, they crossed their fingers and prayed to their gods.

The girl balanced herself on heals too high, waiting on the new year. She prayed for snow, wishing for something to rely on.  Its seasons forever vacillating, she envisioned her life balancing itself on the tips of its toes, and she wondered if she might not fall over. 

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in 3 - 1

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I wished on many moons

for you

but you never heard

my pleas.

               ¿Please!

I wished on many stars

for me

hoping You would help

me see

what could never be.

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in 3 - 1

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A pear tree is what he gave me

On that last Christmas day.

I excavated below and

Built windows for a roof above

Hoping it would never die.

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.. but it did ..

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in 3 - 1

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There is no one to share this night with,

The howling wind

The wee snowflakes to finally replace this December rain

The desperate attempts of the near-full moon to vaunt

sadly.

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in 3 - 1

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The scent of peeled oranges permeated the air about their private prairie hide-away; black tea steeped upward to the sky; from their patch of golden, they watched the clouds fly by.

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in 3 - 1

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purple garden gloves lay

on the soil bed;

   in their plastic pots

   flowers line the walk.

but there’s no sign

of the girl

who roots them just so

in the springtime ...

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in 3 - 1

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My love affair

With the alphabet

(including the Q[ueue!])

Is a well documented one.

At least, I think so – do you?

For you are J&J

Of the flourish on my 'W'

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calligraphy:  M. Hébert

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in 3 - 1

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 you...............

i can’t remember

what you looked like

before i loved you

   were you always so beautiful -

and were my eyes so full of fishes

every time you entered a room?

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in 3 - 1

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pen on paper, soft

passionate kisses

that go on forever . . .

dirty truths scratched in scarlet
make their appearance too!

clearly, I AM an

eXhibitionist

worthy 

of purple prose.

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in 3 - 1

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je connais l’amour tu sais …

      (oui, c’est vrai)

   et malgré ces cicatrices

des échecs

qui détaillent le contour

de mon esprit,

je désire que tu reste

chez moi à

l'infini

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in 3 - 1

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I have felt it

rush through these veins

fill my heart

with you and you and

ripe with yearning

it continues to beat

its ballad.

yes,

it’s true ...

I have loved.

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in 3 - 1

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soiled and sullied

all these words once virgin and unspoken,

trembling, niggling at me

for a place to be

             they are,

now -

in journals and stories,

borrowed, bent, bestowed,

at home.

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thirty-one dirty words in december ...

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What shall I write during these thirty-one days of December? That will be for us all to see, though limited to thirty-one flippy little words it shall be (but for three!).

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