Audrey Batterham photo

I finished my Master's in English at Carleton University last year, which brought joy and gratitude. I had been teaching English and History for twenty years at high schools from the South Pacific to Central America to several Canadian provinces. I am grateful for the support of my husband Bernie and our three children. Home is with them, a bird, a rabbit, and a fish. I am blessed by friends, being surrounded by art, books, views out over the Gatineau hills, and the pleasures of writing, cooking, and listening for spirit.

Monday's Poem

© Heather Cardin


All things are possible, and heaven is always listening.
                                                 Dr. Caroline Myss

Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat.

The time of year to watch things die. Leaves flounce by, our bird whistles towards some day soon. Light dims early. From somewhere slips a note of music. Chop vegetables, whisper prayers, sing. Rake leaves.

Wish for something in different colours. Imagine a photograph of twisted silver birch on the neighbour's lawn, reflect on symbols in the window: reading angel, tree of life. All things, listening.

The calendar picture reflects yellow into a lake somewhere. This old valley and hills are soft beauty of erosion. At my sister's place, it is already winter. Farther west, rain. Travel in each direction, something similar.

I will seek lily of the valley, plant it somewhere close by, hope that somewhere a woman I do not know plants gardenia. The scent of all the things we hunger for, the fight to stay alive, the touch of knowing. How the guy I saw yesterday looked like a man thinking about getting old.

Many deaths of late. A new paean to griefs unknown, new poems in the skies. Suddenly the desire to bake bread, a wish for grandchildren, a glance at mystery, the corners of my eyes. Leaves get stuck in the tines. Remove.

Continue. Watch trajectory of light. Formations like geese going south, an imagination more beauteous than this moment.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat.