Welcome to the Cranbrook & District Arts Council

Excerpt from Christmas Gifts
by Susan Korol Unger

Gift of Christmas Rain
Lights through rain
flake like crystals of warmth
the candles glow on tables,
in hands and on altars.
Our hearts carol
with hymns of embracing praise,
while instruments play
ageless songs
are newly forming on our lips.
To rejoice in this warmth,
together, these lights draw tears
of emotion, pearls of love
and bead as wax jewels-
All together these days
are the moment,
the joy of being received
and receiving.
We are the gifts
we give to each other.

Excerpt from Personal Spaces: A time to garden
by Susan Korol Unger

Rock Pile
The kids like to mark paths
with piles of stones
directing our footsteps
to treasures-
the woodland orchid
bloomed the other day.
The quiet spot
where we found the salamander
is marked with sparkling quartz.

I am building my own cairn
to direct thought, not footsteps.
I think one day
there will be a bench here
to watch for movement.
Careful arrangement of smooth stones
which hold together
because they have been spoken in prayers.
No rough, sharp edges to catch,
no mortar to set granite with iron rusted rocks,
sand stone with slate.
Some speckled, fist-sized stones
remind me of people,
cool aggregate of experiences,
smoothed and buffed,
some with crumbling edges.
It strikes me how round are these stones,
no flat slabs to set as a table;
all worn by clay and grit.
I now enjoy the shape of these stones
and have stopped trying to make them angular.

Even stone can change-
this place does not remember pain
but celebrates growth.
I can sit on the bench
and look at the head of granite;
as I think, chips of slate move
from deep eyes
to glancing stars.
Do they float,
with the light of quartz
and meditation?
My prayers discern that vein of iron
and red crumbles
like a shedding scab.
New skin, new rock beneath
golden and grey.
Closed eyes,
I do not need to see the rocks
to feel them shifting.
I am learning from my children
to balance these stones

Excerpt from: Falling thoughts… through still life
by Susan Korol Unger

Towards Thanksgiving
The day is full of light;
the laundry whips on the line,
crackling at the trees.
The needles whisper
the fall apples peel
in coils into the bowl.
My hands methodically knead pastry,
roll, pat, cut, flute…
Golden days of cinnamon
apples and sun,
pies and crisp laundry.
Yellow leaves, yellowing grass,
searching for touches of red:
maples, virginia creeper…
The tamarack are yellow
and beginning to show their wispy forms
as they shed their un-evergreen.

It is warm in the afternoons;
the cool-room sighs
with freshly canned preserves.
Like amber, the fruits are caught
in glowing glass, pears, peaches, apricots.
Then the dark jams
and wine and spirit drenched fruits---
the plums, ginger chutney, carrot marmalade.
The harvest is laid to rest
on pine shelves.
I am well pleased with these labours.

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