by Patricia Heintzman
The art of the possible is what I choose,
it’s harmony that we must collectively infuse
to rectify this system of abuse,
a country’s consciousness to transfuse.
by Claire Sicherman
The wing of a gull, the expanse of the Salish Sea, nose tingles with the briny smell of seaweed, a line of dried salt crust up my leg, the way the sun sparkles a quick staccato on water,
by Riun Blackwell
I started patrolling in 1972; after visiting my brother, who started a few months before me. One Sunday a group of friends and I drove up from North Van to Pemberton to visit him. We walked in to his bunkhouse trailer at “92Mile” and I fell in love.
Read Moreby Greta Bolger
Soft radio clear as glass
all the way from Lincoln, love songs
rhythmic as she rocks, wood kissing wood.
by Angela Rebrec
What would it feel like to be a bird, mom?
Would I be scared so high up in the trees?
Now that you’re ten, we come to our forest
by Brandi Bird
The coastline cracking on the back of the beach and the sun reflected off False Creek all lost in the homecoming of water.
Read Moreby Duc Nguyen
Down by the well
in the tribe of Westies
is a pack of wolves
who have filled their mouths
with laugh and joy.
by Jude Goodwin
On one of those days the sun
cast crescent shadows for two minutes
even on our arms and cheeks
A rodent moon
had gnawed its way
into the light