The light closes its tiny fist.The trees put up their old ladders.Spring is coming with both its eyes closed,stumbling against brick. Suddenly its left handis found on my living room floor.
Quebec is burning too.The roads between here and Ontario are greenwith talking buds.Huge planks of sunlight maze the roads.
Oh, it is beautiful to be here.On this side of Toronto the lake is seethingwith promises to itself.There is a tree on my very own desk.Small faces appear, like leaves.I stare and stare.Behind me, life is beginning to make more sense.As the small man in rags goes singing down the street.
