The morning of cold tiles;
wet postcards;
barefoot.
Hand in hand,
sliding together;
the past was new
and the future old.
Today -
this very day -
I ran to my dreams;
the old town daydreams.
When the sky was wet;
the loose tobacco
and the winter song
were the only cravings.
... and in this quite moment,
I hear all the cries
behind me;
around us,
above it all.
- S
Toronto - February 27, 2013