Salt Water Strider

I never got to see your light feet
As you sped from ice floe to ice floe
Like a rock skipping across clear water.

I only saw you move heavily,
Hunched down and weeding the turnips,
Or hefting a huge pot of water drawn from the well two towns away
While your husband gorged on entire bolognas and big plastic tubs of ice cream.

You slipped me extra bits of salt beef and pork scrunchions.
You knew they were my favourite.
I forgive you for giving away all my things.
I was living by a whole other ocean.

Harvest

You grew me on the land
like one of your fruit trees.
And I became used to heavy pruning,
to rain, snow, and animals, too.
I had some toys and books and pets
But they were leaves who left.
They were firewood. They fed your flames,
They were weeds and you yanked them.
But all that ash and all those soft furry corpses,
The ones I dared not love,
Buried deep and nourished my roots.
Grew me twisted and gnarled
but not without sweet fruit.