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     This poem came about when a small grandchild came for a visit. It was about naptime, I suppose, and she fell asleep on the couch wrapped in a soft gray throw.  No need for a picture. The words supply all you need. Sleeping Beauty   Blonde curls spread like a crown around her head she lies crosswise wrapped in a soft gray cover that’s warm as a kitten’s fur   Her fingers uncurl and curl, ever so slightly; her breath’s soft enough to send a feather on its way   She doesn’t hear her Papa rustling paper as he reads in the next room nor the kettle hum or the water run in the kitchen close by   Afternoon sun lights a fair complexion and the tiny veins on small eyelids; a picture book is closed, upside down beside her   There’s no knight rushing in; She’s not in line for any throne; but I’m her Grandma, and she’s royal enough for me.   © Carolyn R. Wilker Published in an earlier Tower Poe...

 This poem came about in October 2018 (published the following year) when I drove up the street in Stratford on my way to visit Mom in the hospital. The leaves had been falling and many were still cloaked in reds and oranges. It was the orange ones that stood out that day, against the blue sky, on the ground. I can't wear orange myself, but for those who can, it conjures up the word bold . And this poem. And I think I had someone in mind when I wrote about courage. Bold Orange Bold orange colours the sky the hue of her brightness daring and courage It isn't everyday you see that kind of daring squaring with the universe and speaking of courage doing her best with what she has more than most who have more she colours the sky with her gratitude Summer 2019 Volume 68 No. 1 Tower Poetry

I wrote this poem for fun one day, imagining how it would be to live a day backwards from dusk to dawn. Backwards What if instead of rising morn we peel the day backwards from dusk to dawn yawning to wakefulness finish the day before it’s begun Our stomachs full, without a bite of food the empty plate before us dessert before potatoes tasks done before we ever start hair combed as though there’d been no tangles clothing wrinkled after the iron What if we started the day at dusk peeled it backwards then tomorrow might be a fine day © Carolyn Wilker Published by Tower Poetry Society Summer 2017, Volume 66, No. 1

Billboards send some interesting messages, some better than others. I remember reading a particular one before I wrote a poem about it. I was thinking about a friend whom I couldn't contact. She'd moved away without a forwarding address. We later got in touch again when I saw the obituary of her husband in the paper. But while I was puzzled about where they went, I wrote this poem that was published by Tower Poetry Society (Summer 2009). The billboard says "Afford to retire" What does it mean? That I can afford to retire? That few can afford it? There was a number and a place retire in Elliot Lake    you once said Is that where you went? The day I called a mechanical voice said "This number is no longer in service" no forwarding number    nada I've searched the book    hoping to find you I wanted to say goodbye, hello, where are you A goodbye would have been kind a forwarding address even better ...

photo by C. Wilker Today it's snowing, just the light snowflakes borne by the wind. Tracks in my backyard make me think that some rabbits in the neighbourhood had quite a time in the crisp clean snow. We could ask, what if they had a party out there, but I think this was a smaller gathering or one rabbit frolicking around having fun, making his own tracks. Then I think of fields covered with snow and of corn stalk stubble showing through. When I was small, we always seemed to have a lake in one front field, a place that was lower than other areas, at least  until Dad hired people to lay tiles to drain the water from the surface and draw it away. What I remember is skating on the small body of frozen (not deep) water with corn stalks poking through at intervals. Dad brought a few straw bales out from the barn that we could sit on to put on our skates. We played hockey or just skated around the stubble. My memory in a poem: Frozen weeds were goalposts where...