I end this story before it begins.

But I can tell you it’s about a nature walk–
my solo hike across the Canadian Shield
far down roads where nobody knows me.

I come across a man
on the side of a trail
looking at maples.

Dancing leaves
of amber and crimson
like a cauldron of magic.

He shows me a sapling
half-broken by the wind.

I wonder out loud
about its past and future.
Will it still grow into a tree?

He tells me none of that matters.
What matters is the cool touch
of wind through its leaves
today.

The stretch of its roots into earth
connecting with those
of its ancestors
today.

I close the story before I know
whether the sapling survives.
Swim to the smallest
of a thousand islands.

The lake supports my body
like a cross-current
as if I were part of its water.

On that tiny rock-island
with two storm-swept pines,
I write a poem
of today.

I Close A Story was originally published in Assemblage on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I
unravel
the last piece
of tinsel from the
tree, but it catches
on my anxiety, winds down
through breakable ornaments
and bad memories, tangling
impressions of family gatherings,
tightening the roar in my ears as I’m
grabbing my children to stop them from
wrecking a relative’s pristine house of glass vases,
shiny baubles and everything placed in perfection just
So.

What a pretty Christmas. Such lovely tinsel. Such strong silver string
drawing an end to something inside me that will never be allowed to
begin.

Unravel was originally published in Assemblage on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The first bones of winter
stare at me in the naked forest

Fallen trees scatter my trail
watched by complacent pines

still upright in their fitted skulls of snow
Branches freeze in mid-reach for my touch

They don’t know I, too, am cold
My head wilted by guilt, I walk faster

before the new snow casts judgement
But before I leave, a cardinal splits the air

- like an impossible choice

Winter’s Choice was originally published in Assemblage on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Tell me your mind
in the silent conversation
that takes shape
across our chessboard

Tell me the sweetness
of danger between us
when I fork
your exposed pieces

Tell me the thrill
running up your spine
when you move
and I pin you between us

Tell me in en passant
without words
as we nearly touch
but don’t

Tell me
your every
move with your mind

Gambit was originally published in Assemblage on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I leave halfway
through my second poem
exiting via the quietest sky

I am dumb, a tomb of atoms
fingers stung by dishes and womb
There is no balm for empty touch

Our old sofa, the witness
to a thousand deaths
comes to life to cheer me on

The flies are still dying
where I hung them on the line
I leave every type of mask behind

I go, naked of wisdom and time

If you liked this, you might enjoy my poem:

Leave

I Leave Naked was originally published in Loose Words on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I try to paint
the sweet dark ache
of yesterday’s memories

but they slip off my brush
roll down the easel
and into the cavity

between my sanity
and Neruda’s poetry,
crushed like the orbs

of berries beneath our feet
when we walked
through summer

and you picked a wildflower
paused to hold
your palms to my cheeks

move my hair
tuck that flower behind my ear
and I paused too

to fall in love with you
I try to paint those
wild berry memories

but they slip off my brush
so I hope you accept
this poem in their stead.

Audio read by Melinda A Smith:

Sweet Dark Ache was originally published in Scribe on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Light loses me
as I drift backward
Stars grow cold
on my skin

I cup my name
one last time
hold it to my face
but it rivers away

The end looks at me
A breeze
pauses
to let me out

The death of water
comes in the turn
of beautiful waves

harms no one
when taken alone

The Death Of Water was originally published in Assemblage on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I count you
Count your memories
offered to me like wild berries

I separate your words
of love and hope
into abacus pearls

I count each pain
to learn
how to take it away

I undress you
count your sighs
drink them like dew

I am your locus
I count you again

Count was originally published in Scribe on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

In the painting
I will never show you

the silent red of the sun
sets on your bare skin

To the ocean’s mid-tone
I add blues

so deep inside you
I cannot fathom their beauty

Adrift in your faraway eyes
I paint clouds of dream grey

And at last, on the water
I scatter your voice

in breaths of light

I Will Never Show You was originally published in Assemblage on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Summer rusts in my salad bowl.
I cannot eat her with my tiny spoon
so I use a pitchfork
to devour her sour limbs.

This summer tastes of stale Netflix,
of a bucket of thermometers.
She is too fevered a season.
I pour her back into the greenhouse.

My mind has run out.
I pack up my chess set
and move into my body
to look for a partner.

Young gods are camped out
roasting souls over my heart.
I balance the chess board
on my sternum, offer them an exchange.

A bishop for a soul.
Two pawns for a god.
I win the match, up by a few gods
and down one soul.

Despite having lost my soul
I get the universe as a prize.
I kick it around
like a soccer ball.

Because in these difficult times
soul-less
or whatever,
we could all use more exercise.

Eating Summer with a Pitchfork was originally published in Assemblage on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.