Tag Archives: Winter

The First Day of Spring in Hoth, Saskatchewan

The First Day of Spring (in every cartoon/movie/book I have every seen):

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puddles of melted snow giving my galoshes purpose

the promise of blossoms awakening on branches

children’s coats disregarded on playgrounds

baby rabbits huddling together in hidden nests

the humming of bumblebees as they blur through the air

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The First Day of Spring (in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan):

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wind whipping new life into month old snow

sidewalks rubbed out beneath the white eraser

dusted valleys form where roads once stretched

winter sifts across the pavement weathering blacktop to ice

cars drift between grooves and into powdered ditches

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I don't see the difference.

I don’t see the difference.

Watch part of our ride home from work yesterday afternoon:

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Of course, we still made it to the comic book store…

it was Wednesday after all.

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Check out some more photos of Spring in Saskatoon.


Canterbury Thoughts on my Way to Work

Canterbury Thoughts on my Way to Work

Mindy M. Wara Maciolek

March 11, 2013


The cool March sun begins to break through the thick traffic.

Weathered ice, gritty with sand, leads me from the parkade.

Tailored suits and peacoats drift past as they shuffle in masses

to board meetings with their smart phones in hand.



Pilgrims weathered grooves into Canterbury steps,

polishing the marble with their knees.

They carried burdens instead of briefcases,

and relics instead of flash drives.


The ice, heavy underfoot, is worn with daily footprints

and shows no sign of melting.

The House on Oak Street

With the seasons changing so rapidly here in Canada, I start thinking about the holidays and back home. Here is a fairly nostalgic poem about my childhood home.


The House on Oak Street

Mindy M. Wara


Spring awakens Mom’s sunny tulip cups

along-side the white house, mint

in 1991, when Dad first drew out the “For Sale” sign

as if he were Arthur pulling the sword from the stone.

My sister and I can never resist the urge to pluck

the tulip heads from their stalks, mashing them

into potions along with poison berries.

We were warned never ever to eat them,

but I made her try one once. She was fine.


As the last puddles of spring evaporate,

I drag the storm-blown birch stick

through my dad’s left-over rainbowed gasoline spots

on the driveway. The iridescent spectrum swirls in on itself.

I discover I am an artist, not a mechanic,

as my father had anticipated,

though the grease stained coolots and jumpers

in the hamper suggest otherwise.


Dead geraniums allude to autumn,

hanging their weary wilting heads

in the planter below the mailbox.

The cheapest pumpkins

we could find at Fernau’s stand guard,

etched with the scariest faces Dad’s knife can carve,

the orange mucus, guts, and seeds

our fingers squish around in

is left crusted to the table for Mom to clean up.


Peering out the living room window,

I see blue snow under streetlamps.

It takes over the yard, the jungle gym,

the windows as I lick and stick the snowflake window clings,

readying the house for reindeer and grandparents,

offering Christmas warmth from the muted world.

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What vivid memories do you associate with your childhood? Please comment and share!