My origins

Growing up I lived on a small island in the middle of the Bay of Fundy which many have never heard of. I love that I come from that island. It has helped shape who I am today and the salt of the sea runs deep within me.

On this island
speckled and imperfect
a child sits on the sand
and looks down at the sky
Her legacy ripples on a beach of echoes
a wave curling back to her origins
Her history begins here
on the hoarse hush of waves
and white like surf a whisper of blessings
is sent to the land
We tread that ground of rebirth
as each tide comes in
but these are the waters,
the earth, and the air
that made me



 Cedar Street

It was a corner lot, the last house on the street
Brown shingles, clean white shutters, paved driveway
The border of the property lined with lilacs and crabapples

Now, it has a green roof, a driftwood fence
and fake man made dirt hills
Grass peaks out from the cracks in the pavement

The brook out back and the pond beyond it
made a tranquil setting, as the sun coined its way goldly down
Breaking amidst reaching branches and fingering leaves

Now the pond is waterless and the brook hushed by neglect
a meandering stream
An embankment of clouds offer rain

The white walls were bright with sun, lit by smiles
and the yard punctuated with flowers
the scent of home swells up softly

Words written of a precise mansion in which my family lived
A fortress it once was now a crumbling shrine
a forlorn wreck of shingles