Indecisive frost,
skies full of shadow,
a black-eyed Susan with just one petal left–
The tents at Moss Park shiver in unison.
On a park bench
the breath of an old asian man
makes tiny tired clouds–
they slip out of his frown,
escaping all knowledge of him.
We are all found things that prefer to be lost.
The streetcars rattle by, uncomfortable
with their load in life. A poor man’s ox.
In November
the evergreens hesitate like the cross.
Toronto In November
About Me
A poet living in Ontario. Mostly works of memoir and poetry that focus on motherhood, womanhood, and relationship to self.
The Offline Mind 
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