Small Ode to a Violet

On tips of ice-encrusted toes,
she waits for spring
to warm the woodland trails;
then from her purple-dimpled pose
on green brocade
she quietly exhales.

Random Query

Who draws the map,
selects the route,
then hires the crews
to set the rails
that trains of thought
will chug along?

Summer Evening on the Shuswap

As twilight plucks her mellow shadow chords,
the valley murmurs; fragrance trickles down
from mountain pines and clustered clouds outline
the hills with rows of golden filigree.

On prickly feet, the summer heat begins
to scurry skyward. Soon, with cooling strokes,
the night descends and sweeps the colors from
the lake. At last, with grateful sighs, we sleep.


I had a Thought;
guarded it closely,
walked it faithfully,
fed it well.
Then yesterday
while sunning itself
on my window ledge
it fell
three stories below.
I guess it's dead.
Does anyone have
a thought to sell?


the fragile shell
around our day
is broken
with a whack
we're cheesed
and peppered
beaten well
by life's four-pronged
(a useless sprig
of parsley poised
to garnish us
with pride)
then finally
we're dumped
and ignominiously


Our chiseled teeth sink deep
in the esophagus of time
where mesozoic gluttony
decayed in pits of slime.

Our hunger pangs resuscitate
their molecules that rise
in thinly sinewed vapor tongues
to eat the ozone skies.

© Laryalee Fraser


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