Time, a poem.

I watch the last winter Junkos
gather at the feeder my son filled before he left.
Soon they will fly north for summer.
On the new house construction behind us
the roofers walk the hips and ridges
without safety ropes, nail-gunning shingles
without incident. When the roof was white with frost
they tied themselves down, just to be sure.
I might have done the same, tied him
to me with advice or questions, my preference
for his BB gun, his childhood. But it was well
past time for Spring, and I imagine
he already sensed the enticing green
fatigue of 05:00 hours, heard new voices
promise vital things. My voice
like friendly fire, something
best kept in the back of his mind.


  1. How lovely and poignant! Stumbled upon your blog again via Facebook’s “On this day”. Your family is so grown up and beautiful! Kudos to your son for his honourable choices. As the daughter of a police officer I can understand the complex emotions involved. Love to you all, Suzan



  2. Hi Suzan. Thanks so much for dropping by and for your kindness and encouragement. I’m in that space between surreal and acceptance…one in the military, one heading toward policing, and one in art/design. Life is so very interesting. Hope all is well with you and yours. Love, Lesley-Anne



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