How many winter walksended with burrs mattedin curly Wheaton hair;how you wriggledto escape the grooming,how we laughed at yourjokester antics? Your spirit still fillsthe empty spaces,I hear the jingle of your collar, catcha whiff of terrier fluff,pull on an invisible leashwhenever I encounter burrs. (For Cee’s Flower of the Day)
Tracing the lines of your perfection,I remember, childhood discoveries –wax paper and hot iron,the smell of fresh raked pranks,and what it means to be Canadian. I no longer make leaf art,nor partake of Autumn cleanup,but I have not forgottenthe power of your symbolismand how far we have yet to go. (For Cee’s Flower of the […]