Miramishi Reader Interview

Find it here:

http://bit.ly/dianday

Revisiting The Clock of Heaven

Another wonderful review!

http://miramichireader.ca/2018/08/clock-of-heaven-review/

The Madrigal’s first review!

And a fantastic one!

Find it here:

Guest Post: Dian Day’s The Madrigal

Author Interview!

Check it out at http://open-book.ca/News/All-Transformations-Have-a-Cost-Dian-Day-on-Her-Arresting-New-Novel-The-Madrigal

The Madrigal!

THE MADRIGAL is now in print! You can find your copy of the novel directly from the publisher:

https://www.inanna.ca/index.php/catalog/madrigal/

or at Amazon:

https://www.amazon.ca/Madrigal-Dian-Day/dp/1771334932/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1528712689&sr=8-1&keywords=the+madrigal+dian+day

or at Chapters-Indigo:

https://www.chapters.indigo.ca/en-ca/home/search/?keywords=the%20madrigal%20dian%20day#internal=1

Of course, it can also be ordered through your local independent bookstore — or you can ask for it at your local library.

If you enjoy the read, please consider writing an online review at any bookseller or literary sites you frequent. In addition to Amazon and Chapters-Indigo, you can cut and paste your review to either or both of the sites listed below! Online reviews make a huge difference these days!

https://49thshelf.com/

https://www.goodreads.com/

Your support is greatly appreciated!

Dressing

I put on my mother’s undershirt, my mother’s socks, her splash pants, the gloves I found at the very back of her closet underneath the misshapen afghan she knitted 40 years ago, my father’s fleece sweater—the one I bought for him some time before he died—and my father’s Tilley hat (given to me by my brother after my mother’s funeral.) Thus clothed, I find I am ready for any kind of spring weather. The cold rain cannot penetrate to my raw skin.

Ice Arrows

I look for an explanation across the expanse of water. Arrows of ice point me in all directions. They are too thin to hold my weight. The dog and I keep walking on solid ground.

Ice Tide

The ice travels in and out on the tide like so much flotsom: the great white shards, the frozen rubble, the floating sand-iced cakes, the pale blue shadows, the cold hanging in the air like winter breath. Yesterday when I came I saw nothing but an open expanse of steel-blue water with a thin white line on the distant horizon.

Birds

Yesterday it was a flock of robins―a good dozen or so―dancing in my neighbour’s pasture, where his cousin keeps his beef in summer, beside the broken feeder. Back so soon and fat from Patriot Point or Hamilton Park or White Point Garden, low country, South Carolina, where bald cypress and live oak are thickly hung with Spanish Moss. Today it was a nuthatch upside-down on the 100-year-old lilac, back from Muncy, Pennsylvania, and a downy woodpecker returned from the mountains of Virginia, tap-tap-tapping among the barren plums. Feathers, flying, and these tiny warm and beating hearts are surely miracles.

Hands

These hands: warm and almost unbearably soft, still reaching to try to grasp and hold delicate memories as they slip under flannel blankets, hide in the fold of hospital gown, evaporate into flowers. Now those memories are floating like whispers in the trees, uncontained by skin and bone, oh, free, like love.