forty three

Soft naptime murmur
Can we have a cuddle, mum?
Christmas bustle's end

forty two

Holiday cookies
Mulled wine, dirty martini
Season of excess

forty one

Forecast interest wanes
December darkness descends
and it's always cold

forty

You too, are this age
Together we celebrate
grey hairs, hard work, home

thirty nine

Farsighted, you are
devastated and outraged
What will glasses gain?

thirty eight

First winter bike ride
wear wooly hat as helmet
Brave until aware

thirty seven

Today my third born
three years, or just yesterday
It goes by so fast

thirty six

Costumed and ready
your excitement contageous
Happy Halloween!

thirty five

Nine years and counting,
mother as name, title, bond
Happy Birthday, son

thirty four

Climbing endless hills
Lungs burn, legs ache, soul flies out
back in at the top

thirty three

Your every breath watched
as baby, you slept light, fussed
At eight you are still

thirty two

Another birthday
One by one we mark the turn,
celebrate forty

thirty one

New fiddle player
awkward clutching grip, screech, grin
How does one learn this?

thirty

Autumn's pace quickens
Leaves fall, activities start,
the true year begins

twenty nine

Indian summer
We hang on to your mid-days,
look past cool mornings

twenty eight

First day of grade one
Shy smile, hand held and released
into the big world

twenty seven

Last week of summer
Ice cream pool heat wave, ending
slips by unannounced

twenty six

My bike and I crash
Soft tissue, harder concrete
head spins, thank goodness

twenty five

Pack, unpack, launder
everything, pack bags, repeat
Summer weeks unroll

twenty four

Choosing countertops
grey isn't grey isn't grey...
Sound familiar?

twenty three

I missed a week, but
don't Haiku take vacation?
Let's just say they do...

twenty two

Orange kite dips in
sea sky bluer than the waves
Three boys run, heart fills

twenty one

Five of us, two rooms
Bigger than expected gulf
when two move upstairs

twenty

Sick as a lame dog
Haiku don't come easily,
my focus inward

nineteen

Lush greenery, vines
an explosion of colour
Vancouver jungle

eighteen

Oh ye mighty elm
you take first prize hands down for
messiest of trees

seventeen

Frenetic renos
eight to eleven p.m.
The kids are asleep

sixteen

War declared on moths
inhabiting my pantry
I am beyond zen

fifteen

Parenting alone
Missing you five days equals
one brand new grey hair

fourteen

On a high ladder
a view of the neighbourhood
Heart skips beat, paint drips

thirteen

As new leaves unfold
I dedicate my practice
to spring rain, a breath

twelve

Hobo-themed birthday
Six years old, free of worry,
mud-faced, sack on back

eleven

No time to change bike
tires slow with studs, plus nineteen
Spring! But wait... more snow

ten

Hand on belly, asked,

at a party, A baby?

No! (me, mortified)

nine

My thoughts of Boston
I share your singular grief
mother, boy of eight

eight

Sweet avenging day
make those children pay for night
We slept not a wink

seven

Picking paint colours
White isn't white isn't white
and neither is gray

six

Would you act your age?
Oh right. Eight-year-old-boys do
laugh, poo, penis, fart

five

In like a lion
followed by a fierce tiger
March, you're killing us

four

Tired renovators
Put down your tools and make love
The day is not young

three

Your mouth, my nipple
Sweetest toddler moment in
afternoon cuddle

two

Thank goodness snow plows

and seasoned shovellers toil

Their path my bike route 

one

Fourth winter virus
How many more days until
warmer winds reprieve