i smile
when that brazen little snowflake
in all its fluffy glory
on your self-trimmed bangs
i slowly reach towards it
as your big brown eyes blink
i touch your hair
and the flake
on your open hand
i kiss you
the flake melts
i stroke your cheek
with the back of my hand
a sigh is worth
a thousand swoons
i think
your smile
fades though
a little
wondering if
i’m disappointed
i ask
your eye brows raise
body is my first language
i say
as my fingers
hook over
the top
of your jeans
and pull you
the best plans to get laid
of mice and men
often go a–
you laugh
your hands behind my neck
you pull me
into you
as you always have
before you knew
the night falls
stealthy flakes
i know you had plans
you whisper
between kisses
i had things set up
for weeks
but this
i’ve been looking for


Hello, dumplings.

You’re all looking well.

I know I haven’t been posting as much lately. But I have an excuse.

I’m temperamental and fairly lazy.

Also I’m working on an ALL NEW BLOG.



Exclamation points!

It will be GLORIOUS.

And it will be brought to you by Team PeterDeWolf.com:

Jason: (Superb hosting and support)  He quickly found out that my particularly brand of dorkiness has no practical applications.

Jenn: (Thesis-wrestling and header design)  She gets to enjoy exchanges like this:

“I’m picturing a modern serif for your header font.”

“I don’t know what modern serif means. It sounds made up.”

Ashley: (Project management)   She gets to wake up to 10 emails from me asking for her opinion on various fonts and icons and assorted blog detritus.  She also gets to experience:

“You see, I want my blog to be EPIC. I need the font to be bold and in your face and befitting a man of my stature. I want my blog to entertain and inform and feel like… a hug on a cold winter day. I want it to change the way people look at the internet… and each other. Hey, wasn’t Smokey and the Bandit AWESOME? I want the site to look amazing, yet not take away from the writing. Because, dear Ashley, since the beginning of tiiime…”


But don’t feel too bad for her, I’m reasonably sure she’s playing most of Hanson’s catalogue in her head while I speak.

So yeah…

New blog.

Coming soon.

You better get a pedicure because it’s going to blow your socks off.

And the writing will be better than what you saw in that last sentence.

Promise promise.

– Peter

writers write
they say
you say
i really should
i know
sometimes i don’t like
the floundering
in the muck and mire
to try to find
that one
of universal golden truth
of heads nodding
of you swooning
it’s not
lack of desire
it’s more a
for the wrong words
i mean
how do you describe
the realization
that olive branches
in both directions
wrapped in
turquoise ribbons
i imagine
even now
sleeves rolled up
thinking cap on
slightly askew
there remains
a disconnect
too much to share
looks like
nothing to share
looks like
another day of chasing
that which
doesn’t want to be
writers write
you say
maybe i shouldn’t
for the perfect idea
at the perfect time
but i waited for
and i like
how that worked out

you’re a little dopey
when you wake up
and for a while after
sleepybeargrrrrr away
my kind words
they’ll land later
i brush it aside
your impertinent hair
i smile
you see
because i know
at some point
in the history of all histories
there was a god of beauty
and it was a pretty good gig
he cooked up
while hanging out
all day in a robe
you know
i’m not sure
if he invented ball room
but i bet he thought that
was pretty nifty
like with anyone else
his work became stale
he even created the platypus
for a larf
but then he met
the goddess of adorableness
that’s when shit took off, yo
like adding colour to tv
or chocolate to milk
or push-up to bras
the wholes > the sums
they did good work
then time went on
as it does
wars came and went
so did bell bottoms
and then one day there was
their wonderful creation
you pull your hair
into a messy ponytail
you rub your eyes
your voice
a delicate whisper
playing with my ears
before traveling
on the wind
carried onward
by the wings of a bird
dancing with the sun’s rays
to the mountain of mountains
to those two gods
taking pride
in their creation
you’re just so fucking cute
is what i’m saying

[This, and many other posts, can be found on Peter’s new blog.]

Because of some of the blog posts here, on a number of occasions, blog readers have asked me to give advice to their boyfriends (or potential future boyfriends) on how to treat a woman.

This normally took place while I was in the midst of a Jews-in-the-desert like stretch of singledom. So my replies would usually take the form of “Really? I’M your go-to guy on this? Have you given any thought to joining a convent?”

But I like to help out the other bros when I can. So here is…

How To Treat a Woman:

1) If you like a girl, LIKE the girl. Make sure she knows. Tell her that you like her. If it was me, I’d say something like, “Hey. I like you.” I’m creative like that.

2) Don’t play games. You’re probably not smart enough to win them.

3) If you get a girl’s number, USE it. Don’t wait three days. Hell, don’t wait three hours if you don’t want to. Personally I’d text within the hour with, “Your number is now in my phone. Congratulations. Your life is about to change in wonderful ways.” (But I was born adorable, so this may not work as well for you.)

4) If she says “I’d like that” in that cuuute voice of hers when discussing the idea of you watching a movie with her involving sparkly vampires and werewolves with a strong aversion to wearing shirts, just watch the damn movie. It’s not that big of a deal. Plus you can console yourself with the knowledge that Rachelle Lefevre is in it. Even if she only appears for about seven minutes in the first movie. You know, from what I’ve heard…

5) Once you get her, keep working as if you haven’t succeeded yet. Use whatever skills you have. If you’re creative, create shit. Every single day. If you can cook, then cook. If you’re handy, then build and fix things. Put in the effort. She’s worth it. Because at the end of the day…

She lets you see her boobs. Her. BOOBS. Come on.

6) Go the extra mile. Think about what you could do that would embarrass you if your buddies heard about it. Then go 30% further.

7) Slap her on the bum in the bedroom. And anywhere else, really.

8) Listen. To everything. I don’t understand dudes who can’t think of gift ideas for their girls. She gives you hints all year long. Keep track of them. Christmas is rolling around and you’re trying to decide what to get? Refer to your notes. In September she pointed out a necklace she likes. In November she mentioned wanting a longer necklace to wear with that shirt that fits her so sexily that it makes your inner monologue stutter. So you get her that necklace.

a) You make her happy.
b) She loves you for listening.
c) She wears that shirt more often… ManlySwoon.

9) Try to get to know her.

And NOT just because her feeling like you know her — really know her — will make her more likely to do that thing. You know that thing. *Nods slowly* She’ll see through that. Do it because you like her. You do. I know our male brains are conditioned not to recognize the symptoms — like we also don’t realize when we’re getting older, or are completely lost — but you wouldn’t be reading a post written by some Canadian joker that she sent you if you didn’t.

It’s like this, if you don’t know her middle name, favourite flower, favourite cheese and what she called her childhood blanket, then you’re doing something wrong.

10) Talk to her. Girls want to know what you’re thinking. *Peter looks both ways to make sure no women are reading* Trust me, you do not want their imaginations filling in the blanks. That’s just bad bananas all around, yo.

Tell her what you’re thinking. Good (with a smile) and bad (with delicacy.)

Opening up makes her feel closer to you. (You will like the fact that it will make her feel less inhibited with you.) And it feels nice to have someone you can talk to. No. Really.

Plus if you get all those thoughts out of your head, it leaves more room for fantasy baseball stats and for thinking of ways to get her to do that thing…

And if, after you’ve bumbled your way through all of that, she decides to keep you around…

Hold on tight.

You probably still don’t deserve her.

Hiiiiiiiiii, you.

I like snow.


Lately it’s been reminding me of you.

I can see it.

Us standing side by side.

The backs of our mittened-hands barely touching, but not holding.


We stare out over the snow-decorated landscape.

Bird tracks under a feeder.

A cat’s paw prints showing where she waited nearby.

Snow day footprints of children running in all directions.

And all of it being gradually covered by large, light, fluffy flakes.

I wander off.

You look at a field of snow dunes and drifts painted pink by the slowly retreating sun.

You take as much as you can of it in with a large inhale.

Then you watch your exhale escape and fade.

You hold out your red mitten-clad right hand. Palm up.

Flakes accumulate.

You stare closely.

So intricate.

So fleeting.

You smile.

A laugh bubbles to the surface.

You turn to share the moment with me.


I hit you in the shoulder with a snowball.

You are shocked.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Oh relax,” I say. “You have plenty of padding.”

Even as the words spill out…

You are even shockeder.

“Are you calling me fat?!?!?!” you yellask.

“Oh dear God no!”

“You are!”

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean!. Oh no!” I am tripping on the words as they come out.

“I’m hurt…” you whisper.

“Your jacket! I meant your jacket! Oh no… Baby… You’re perfect!”

You giggle.

“Just messing with you,” you say.

You’re entirely too pleased with yourself.

You dance around me. I just blink.

You skip off, still laughing.

You turn back to me.

“And that is why y–”


I hit your other shoulder with an even bigger snowball.

“You’re in big trouble now, mister” you inform.

“Please. You have to be at least *THIS* tall to trash talk me.”

You stand under my hand, that I am holding about five feet and seven inches off the ground.

You jump and try to hit your head against it.

You try to stifle your laugh.

I snicker.

You grab my jacket and shove me. I hold your hands and fall to the ground, pulling you down on top of me.

“Oh… no… please… get… off.. of… me,” I mangiggle.

You try to get off of me, but I hold you down.

“Get your hands off of my bum,” you say.

“Not… quite… yet…”

You toss snow in my face with both hands.

I let go. You get up laughing.

I make a snow angel.

I get up too.

I pull you in for a hug.

I kiss your freckled nose.

“Cold,” I say.

“That’s how you know I’m a healthy puppy.”

I wander off.

I don’t notice you drawing horns on my snow angel.

You look to see what I’m doing.

I’m brushing snow off of a picnic table with one hand, while putting my Black Berry back in my pocket with the other.

“What are you doing over there?” I ask.

“Being awesome.”

It sounds reasonable to me.

I see the horns on my angel.

“Nice work.”

“I thank you,” you curtsy.

You wrap your arm around mine.

We walk.

You lean against me.

I kiss the top of your head.

“I like that,” you whisper.

“My nose was runny,” I whisper back.

You shake your head.

We walk.

I pull my phone phone out, hit a couple buttons, then put it back in my pocket.

Your phone rings.

You fish yours out, and see it’s a BBM’d pic from me.

You look closer and see that I had written “I <3 you" in the snow with my finger.

"And that's why I keep you around," you say.

"Not my rakish good looks?"



You put your phone away and pull your mittens back on.

"Babe, my hands are wet," you tell me.

"Mine too."

"You don't seem to mind."

"I'm ever so burly."

"Mmmmhmm" you mmmmhmm.

We walk a few more steps.

I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out a dry pair of mittens.

You beam.

"Awww. They're little! You brought them for me?" you ask.


"How did you know?"

"I'm a pain in the ass and you're hyper-competitive. How could that NOT lead to a snowball fight?"

"Hyper… competitive?" you madface and point at me.

"But cute. VERY cute," I add.

"Thaaaank you," you almost sing.

"I meant me."

You let go of my arm and put up your fists.

"You're going down, DeWolf."

I take a step back and pretend to loosen up.

"We gonna talk all night or are we going to do this?" I ask with a grin.

Sound like fun?


the orchard


My paternal grandparents lived in a small town on the north side of my island.

Seven miles away.

We went there a lot when we were kids. Especially in the summer.

They lived in a white, two-story house.

Despite my grandfather’s wizardry with wooodworking, the floors in the back of the house — both stories — sloped. A lot. I always figured that he thought it gave the place character. He seemed like the kind of guy who would feel that way.

If you walked out the back door, and followed the path, you’d find yourself in a small orchard.

We often did.

There were a bunch of apple trees.

Sour apples were their specialty.

My grandfather turned them into cider. We’d sneak into a basement that appeared to be carved out of rock, to steal some.

Raspberries and blackberries fought for space and water and sun in the orchard.

Small animals dashed to and fro.

Small kids hid and sought.

It was a truly wonderful place.

If you walked through the orchard, you came out in a little clearing overlooking the most charming of harbours. Blue Atlantic water. An island with untouched evergreens. Boats of every type moored and bobbing and spinning.

We’d skip rocks down on the shore.

In wet sneakers.

With smiles almost hurting sunfreckled faces.

We’d have rock-throwing contests.

For a while.

However we’d always find our way back to the orchard.

Because on the best branch, on the best tree, in the best spot, there lived a tire swing.

To adult eyes it was just an old tire. Probably off some truck rusting behind my uncle’s garage.

To us it was a magical transportation device.

It was hanging on a thick piece of rope. A rope that, I imagined, had a previous gig on some ancient sea-going vessel. It had stories to tell, I was sure, but secrets to keep.

If you were the first person to get to the tire swing after a rain, you had the unenviable task of rocking it back and forth to get all the water out of the bottom of it.

You always got wet.


But then it was ready.

You climbed in.

And your cousins waited.

Cousins with missing teeth and mischievous grins.

Cousins who have drifted apart, but not too far.

Cousins who, as I write this, are now the parents and the caregivers.

Cousins who would grab the tire and spin it.

And spin it.

Building up what we’d later learn is potential energy.

And then they’d let go.

The kaleidoscope of nature would begin.

You’d open your eyes wide and see it all.



The shoreline.

The steeple on the ornate church.

The old house.

The lovers walking hand in hand down the road with grass growing up through cracks in asphalt.

You’d close your eyes and hear it all.

The birds.

The children laughing.

The tree creaking.

The rope straining.

It would seem to last forever.

And then it would stop.

You’d fall out of the tire, laughing too hard to stand up.

You’d tell everyone it was somuchfun.

You’d wait, with surprising patience, for your next turn.

I miss that orchard sometimes, you know?

I miss that tire swing.

I miss the sights and sounds.

But those feelings of exhilaration and possibility and of being wonderfully, perfectly off-balance?

You bring those back to me every day.

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