Dreaming Of Marilyn Wood Print

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My mother said it once
And she’ll say it no more


“Your Dad does not snore”


a puff and a hoot
perhaps an occasional toot


“But your father does not snore”


Sometimes at night a quibble in the dark
a moan from under the pillow deep from the heart
soft rumbles echo from his fat tummy
gas and air mix and make it sound funny,


“But no, thank God, your Dad does not snore”

Born and at times housed along the riverbanks of the great St. Lawrence river in Lachine, Montreal until settling into the quiet sanctuaries of foster homes on Prince Edward Island. The chimney red clay roads wound effortlessly throughout the countryside up and over the green hills and through the spacious meadows filled with potato farms and struggling sheep ranchers. Wild blueberry patches and lavender flowers graced the green pastors with Spring time vitality and beauty that only a God could create and only a woman could appreciate and understand. Each river beckoned with hungry trout just begging for a fresh worm and a metal hook, almost daring Huck Finn enthusiasts to skip school and cast their bamboo lines into the mystical...