Contributor: Joanna M. Weston

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rivers taught me how to drown
moss-grown rocks stole my eyes

sea cucumbers weave tides of green
kelp ribbons wave over fields of sand

so small the seahorse rides coral
yet reefs slice my heart like blades

where spume flies with your words
the chaotic silence of a cresting wave

take high latitudes in stride
shores lie above drifting ice-bergs

long slow swell of ocean currents
this wind blows passion into foam

back to the curve of ship’s cutting bow
shrimp and crab nibble cold flesh


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JOANNA M. WESTON. Married; has two cats, multiple spiders, a herd of deer, and two derelict hen-houses. Her middle-reader, ‘Those Blue Shoes', published by Clarity House Press; and poetry, ‘A Summer Father’, published by Frontenac House of Calgary.