Miriam H. Harrison
We wait, knowing at any moment the bell will ring, children pouring from the doorway. They will come with half-eaten lunches, half-coloured drawings, half-true stories about their day. They will ask us what’s for supper. We will tell them they have to wait to find out. They do not like waiting.
Neither do we.
Still, we wait, knowing the bell will ring. We wait as the falling leaves of autumn give way to the snowdrifts of winter, the puddles of spring, the glare of summer. We no longer feel the seasons, do not count their comings and goings.
Writing from the boreal forests and abandoned mines of Northern Ontario, Miriam H. Harrison writes poetry and short fiction that vary between the eerie, the dreary, and the cheery. She is a member of the Horror Writers Association and the Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association.
Also in this issue, a poem by Miriam H. Harrison: Learn My Strength