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Sunday, October 22, 2017

Stopped in My Tracks by Spring Robins

Strolling to the subway one May morning

(no more breakneck speed for me)

I was stopped in my tracks

by robins.

Two of them, fuelled

by the raging hormones of spring,

flew past me,

two feet in front of my nose

as if I were just another harmless, inanimate object

to be ignored.


Straight as a die they flew

in that uniquely robin-esque rush

to reach there

from here.


One after the other—

literally, one was after the other—

predictably the male after the female

in a dash for life, more life,

acting on that built-in urge to make more robins—

quick, before it is too late.


Lusting robins flew a bee-line

(a robin-line)

toward the fulfillment of the nest.

That they passed right under my nose

made me pause for gratitude.


Copyright © 2017 Ann Tudor
Food blog:

Sunday, October 15, 2017

Juggling Time

At some point in our journey

we cease to juggle time.

It happens toward the end,

when change comes thundering over the hills

and has its way with us.

Yes, at some juncture where the change cycle


what we have considered to be us

(our selves, our lives),

at that point we deliberately stop

juggling it

and instead rest our hands in our lap

and cradle time which,

if it exists at all,

deserves finally

the soft, slow loving

we show to all that we cherish.



Copyright © 2017 Ann Tudor
Food blog:

Sunday, October 8, 2017

Questions and Answers

I've always been one for the glib answer.

The philosopher studies the question,

ponders it, seeks the right, deep, answer.

If I seek any answer at all

(and I admit it: being human I do seek),

I'll take the first one that comes along.


Not true!

You've got to watch me like a hawk

to keep those quick untruths

out of the permanent record.


So. Not the first answer.

But any answer that suits.

That's it in a nutshell.

My answers, seldom unassailable,

can be attacked from all directions.

But I don't care.

To suit me,

an answer just has to get me through:

through the day, through the dark night

(actual or of the soul).

An answer just has to shield me


from the slings and arrows, etc.


And when my defenses are breached,

I'll be off to seek the next answer.

For me, answers are written in sand,

not stone.



Copyright © 2017 Ann Tudor
Food blog:

Sunday, October 1, 2017

Seeds, Encroaching

Some people have indoor shoes and outdoor shoes,

a distinction I admire

and can honour in the abstract.

But in reality I blur the identities.

I wear my Birks out to the garden

(just for a moment, you understand,

not for serious gardening).

But even that moment is long enough

for the maple keys

to wedge into the crevices

of the tread and then,

when I'm inside again,

to unwedge themselves,

determined if misguided,

and fall to the floor

perhaps imagining the hardwood

to be a fertile surface

that will nourish a fledgling tree

and as I pick up these randomly dropped seeds

I see in my mind's eye

the maple tree that might grow,

if I let it,

tall and strong

in the middle of my living room.



Copyright © 2017 Ann Tudor
Food blog: