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