I've been writing all my life and
publishing since the mid-eighties. My second book Light Is What We Live in was launched in October 2005. The book is a meditation on the various forms light takes: light on the land, in photographs, and light as the joy which carries us through the darker moments.

I currently serve as President for the League of Canadian Poets, an eclectic band of merry (and not so merry) poets who connect through their love of the word in all its myriad forms. I live most of the year on the shores of Hay Bay, a small body of water that is part of the Bay of Qunite in south-eastern Ontario. We have great sunsets and all kinds of waterfowl coming and going. My husband and I 'migrate' to Kingston in the winter, a great writers' town.

"Dying looked at me today" first appeared in The Harpweaver.

Monday's Poem

© Mary Ellen Csamer

Dying looked at me today

out of the eyes of a dead squirrel
said   I'm coming, wait for me.
I realized I had been
and stopped.

Since her dying
my mother has moved in with me.
I carry her, pick-a-back into the future,
what was rich and needful in her life
now mine.

The weapons we have against dying
are carried in the flesh: weapons
of bone, the heart, a bowl
full of memory and bones, the hands
growing the shape of their ancestors', slight
arthritic ache begins to turn
the fingers in: beggars' hands
permanent wanting.

live wire squirrels in the park,
tree hoppers, nut casers
but not hard
nuts to crack:

dying got one of you today.

I would have said death
but it's not the same, is it?

My mother has been dead two years:
a history,
a dwelling,           a marker, a memory,

but her dying, oh,
that was an event.