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Journal

To Know the Dark

To Know the Dark is a poem by Wendell Berry.

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Journal

This Evening In Spring

This evening in spring
we checked the flower beds
for moisture and green shoots.
We trimmed and dug up
the old raspberry patch
and read bedtime stories.
Taking the dog out
one last time, we pointed
out the first of the night’s
stars, speculating
when the flower full moon
would rise. I tried to write
all these events in
a way that would make them
seem ordinary. Alas,
I could not.

Dimming sky
Waiting for
The moon rise


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Journal

Running in Circles Zine

This is the fifth season of Tuesday morning track workouts with the Arete Endurance crew. Since the beginning of the RunHaiku project, Tuesday morning haiku have featured the happening on this 400m loop of asphalt.

Isn’t it amazing how much wonder can occur on a small patch of land, and the sky overhead, and how ordinary moments with friends can be treasured over time?

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Journal

Distance

Standing
At a distance
From myself

Do you remember
The time you shirked
All responsibility
Tore up budgets and tallies
Forgot to worry
About the dog and the kids
The time you leaped
Into the unknown
And the hands
Catching you
In the flow

I didn’t have
A dream then
But I was dreaming

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Journal

Look Back

Is there anyone chasing you?
Pursuing you, without giving up?
Why are you running?


Carcass of the deer
Slowly being received
By the earth

Prairie crocus
Not asking
To be seen

Fresh water
Flowing through the land
Quenching a thirst

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Journal

Trail Report Zine

First time on the trails this year! Finally the snow has mostly receded, and the warm temps made for a beautiful spring adventure. All the remnants of winter still remain, but signs of spring are everywhere, including the iconic crocuses, Manitoba’s flower and one of the first to bloom each year.

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Journal

Frogs

This was the year
When we began to doubt
Whether the earth
Would recall how to spring
From beneath her shell
Even as the snow (finally)
Disappeared, the grass
Forgot to green until
This evening
We shed our layers
Beneath the waxing crescent
Listening to the frogs
Emerge from the ground
To sing, the scent
Of the earth and water
Mingling in the sweet
Smell of spring

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Journal

Glow

What will they say then

That you loved the spotlight

But the wise among us will know

The world became all the brighter

Because of your glow

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Journal

The Old Climbing Tree

I grew up with access to a great climbing tree in the backyard. It was chopped down last summer.

What’s really interesting is how much also changed in this area in the 30 years since I first moved to the neighbourhood. In the (my) beginning, the yard on the south side had remnants of a farm lot, concrete barn foundations, two crab apple trees, which the neighbour let us pick to made juice (my mouth still puckers at the memory of the tart little apples). Also gone, a row of towering cottonwoods, which would have been pictured above, where now a glorious patch of ordinary grass tries to grow, a peninsula between asphalt seas.

To the north, where our family’s huge garden, backing an aging shop (my dad’s car reconditioning shop) and a small rental house have been removed, now called home to a row of simple townhomes (thus the other parking lot).

Speaking to those with memories older than mine, they speak of the days when the area was all farmland. Even the neighbourhood where my childhood house was built was once a farmer’s field.

Call it progress, or simply change, even the largest and most dear of trees won’t stand in the way of it.

Here’s a little zine about the tree’s good old days, and mine.

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Journal

When Your Boots Get Soaked

A common theme this year, this time of year in particular, is crashing through ice and the soaking of feet.

Here’s a fun little collection of haiku, let’s call them “booter haiku”, compiled into an 8-page zine.

With thanks to closetjudas for opening my eyes to a whole world of description words used in other parts of the country to describe what I’ve always known as a “booter”.