Creekstone Press

Northern BC's publisher

Creekstone Press Publications

Excerpts from The Rosemary Suite

gravel spits from the wheels
of my mustard yellow Volvo
I can no longer measure distance
between Rosemary and myself.
Do we count these things in inches
or memories perhaps
or color?
how many greens between the sun
and my mirror
how many thoughts separate
the birch from the aspen
or the butterfly from the owl?

I am exhausted.

Rosemary read a chapter on acceptance.
Rusty read a story of a woman
who would not let her mother die.
I read a chapter about changes
only you can make.
Rosemary read about love
as the bridge.
We listened to a tape telling how Chiron,
wounded healer, accepted
death as liberty.
We heard stories of near death experiences.

And in between we shelled peas,
wove the garden into seams of dying,
bound savory into little bunches to dry
placing them carefully in the basket,
the string loops hanging over the edge
easy to reach.

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