This summer wasn’t wasted, it carved me new,
Sweat on the gym floor, strength breaking through.
The mirror reflected not just body, but mind,
A power within me I was grateful to find.

Work kept me grounded, with purpose and drive,
Each day a reminder I’m present, alive.
And love wrapped me softly, in laughter and care,
With people who matter, with souls who are rare.

No wild distractions, no fleeting disguise,
Just steady foundations, where true meaning lies.
A season of growth, of muscle and heart,
A summer well spent, a beautiful start.

The first fruit I ever stole
came from an old man I don’t know the name of.
I know he couldn’t move
from his La-Z-Boy by the front window.
I know how his gravelly voice boomed across the yard
as he scolded me for taking peaches from his tree.
I don’t know why he cared.
I know my sister would smile when I brought them home.
And I know my brother had this habit—
biting only one side
until he reached the pit.
I don’t know what happened to the old man,
but I know the peaches started something bigger.
I know I later became a thief—
but also had this habit
of giving people fruit when they’d come over.
I don’t know if the old man knew my name,
or if he just called me the brat who stole his peaches.
I know they cut down that peach tree
when I was in ninth grade.
And I know
I’ve never had a peach so sweet
as the ones from the old man’s tree.

silver spider silk

sticky threads glide on the wind

the spider's season

fuelled summer  from my balcony        
                       fumes  and the deep night in heat
wilming  frequency  ridden under a flight path
        the red and green eyes of the airliner
stare us down whither                                        
           descen­ding the smokey stair
forest fires out west                                  
                     my eyes are wiltered against
aggressive peppery air   ***** creosote vapours

the view from my balcony                      
neighbours walk dogs
people earn their way back from the pubs
and restaurants      and concerts  
and some  greatly received  comedy show
and there’s the streetlight          
; orange wash              
this season

When the summer heat spreads
across the lush greenery,
and marigolds, rudbeckia, and sunflowers
stretch out in the bright sunshine,
I sit in a cool room
and I ask myself why
the loved body,
in which the link
between free will and muscles
has broken,
feels so heavy, so shapeless.

Why does water, given through a syringe,
become the holy grail of hydration —
to quench the flame that’s fading out?
Water and flame —
The paradox of creation.
How much quiet dignity there is in this.

Summer is already leaving,
looking in through the window,
saying softly it’s sorry
that things turned out this way.
It says farewell,
believing that next year
I might be at peace with myself.

I put on an orange blouse
to keep unwanted thoughts at bay.
I hold warmth in my hand.
I whisper:
don’t go yet!
I don’t want to fall apart.
Though I know
the voice is calling him
on a one-way journey.

I look through the window.
I look at the body.
I look at the helplessness
that’s sat down next to me.
I can’t do much.
I can’t do anything.
I cut through the silence.
I closed what was hurting me.

The world breathes quietly.
And we listen —
to Beatles songs:
let it be,
yeah, let it be,
let it be.