Granddaughters, asters, Medea cakes, para pom tandle, Mrs. Roker raking, Caraquet, angelic recurrence, Neruda, zupzupzup, the high bush cranberries, the Somme, a waterfall in Iceland that cries by the thousandsful, the Strawberry Shaman and the Japonica Bushelful Bountiful Lady: you would never mistake a Colleen Thibaudeau wordscape for any other. Her poems might have been written just after the imagination was invented. So lithe and playful, so naturally leaping even in elegy, they would seem like fabulous accidents if Colleen hadn’t been making them, with no loss of freshness, for over forty years. There is a lifetime of poems in this book.