its rolling would be continuous R / a conveyor belt
of soft Rs. sometimes, as smooth and
hip-with-sunglasses-reciting-
poetry it might be, an R does dip it slides
into S, a curved dip that eddies like a blissed-out
brachistochrone. this day,
with my canine six-pack, i slog through mud and
flattened
earth while the creek recites its Rs and Ss. this is
glorious work to wonder
about sounds and letters, ring out halloo as the dogs
wander then circle
back. how like Rs and Ss they are! what a mess of leaves & branches
& rocks
cast all about. haphazard and beautiful. i used to
tell my younger daughter,
her clothes strewn over
bedcovers, floor and dresser top: select & sort
a corner, just one. were her room earth and forest, i
would be saying
how fabulous how artistic!
i sit with the creek, search for its letters &
related sounds
in mine, which is English. the creek’s language fills
my eyes, invades
my veins. how to
converse with a creek:
with different coloured pencils, by hand write down
everything, stray bravely beneath
notebook lines & other / barriers sing
songs
in the creek’s tongue, start
snippets
without subtitles, dip
in
like skipping stones practice daily
as if playing scales
Janice Colman is a Toronto-based neurodivergent poet and interdisciplinary writer. Her chapbook playing cello for a dead bird was published by Turret House Press (2025). Janice’s writing has appeared in filling Station, The New Quarterly, FreeFall, Arc Poetry Magazine, The /tƐmz/ Review, and The Ekphrastic Review. She has received fellowships from AIM Higher and Brooklyn Poets, and her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize (2022, 2025) and Best of the Net (2022).
Janice is the mother of two powerful daughters and a service-dog-in-training named Emily.