one-hundred-fifty-eight.

that sound is either
the wind gushing between glass panelling,
or a truck whizzing on the highway.
each possible when leaving 10 floors
up in the sky.

though, when that one robin grips
onto the balcony,
tweeting without limit,
and the spiderwebs bloom
from unit to unit,
it’s impossible to misinterpret
that the season is changing.

the sun will stay a little longer and,
the afternoons in the warm living room,
with the walls tinted yellow,
will become evenings.
mid-mornings by the window,
will be become wake up calls.

i don’t know what i’d do without
seasonal reminders
that something better –
as comforting as houseplants kissing
sunny floor corners –
is never that far away.

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one-hundred-forty-eight.

crunchy steps up a hill,
a partly snowy sidewalk.
no headphones today,
enjoying the sounds of the stray bird,
the feeling of flurries beneath my feet.
in between the shade and light,
like window blinds.

a change of scenery. a january afternoon.

one-hundred-forty-seven.

icicles on semi-detached roofs,
christening triangle attics,
both at risk of collapsing,
for how frail they are.
but hang in there,
stay still,
at least until the season ends,
and the wind slows,
and the rain feels warm,
and the weeds grow between cracked bricks.
’til it’s next winter and new icicles drip
on the same roofs, frailer still,
but pointing upwards,
just the same.

dufferin grove.

one-hundred-thirty-five.

there are the smells of cinnamon, nutmeg and cardamom.
there are the lights at night, twinkling brightly.
there are the snowflakes, sticking to rooftops,
’tis the season for coconut-chocolate and fried dough.

there too are the to-do lists and gift lists and naughty lists.
there too are the credit card bills and dinners you’d rather avoid.
there too are the busier streets and louder sounds.
’tis the season for questioning how and why we sprout,
energy levels low, no patience (no doubt).

one-hundred-twenty-six.

logs of wood burn
in a house down the street.
the wind carries
the smell of soft smoke
from the chimney,
through the park
and it meets you at your feet.
time travel, mind travel:
to the screen door opening,
a wool plaid coat
and untied taupe work boots;
watching the flames grow,
taller, stronger,
safe amongst stone;
sliced apples without skin,
bite after bite.
you’re on a free flight,
no layovers.
a one-way ticket to
a simpler time.