The nights have turned bone-chillingly cold, but this afternoon was quite pleasant, if still somewhat chilly. There was a freshness that was probably a gift of the recent rains, and I almost did a bit more raking when I discovered that I wouldn't be able to shop, but then decided to simply walk about the yard crunching the leaves underfoot instead. They sounded nice— almost like the fire I don't have crackling in my fireplace.
Now I have to figure out which backup meal I'll have for dinner, since I didn't get out to buy my first choice. If only I had popcorn I wouldn't have to decide. This would be a perfect night for popcorn in lieu of dinner.
It probably won't get much below forty degrees tonight. After last night, that's positively balmy!
There Is No City That Does Not Dream
by Anne Michaels
There is no city that does not dream
from its foundations. The lost lake
crumbling in the hands of brickmakers,
the floor of the ravine where light lies broken
with the memory of rivers. All the winters
stored in the geologic
garden. Dinosaurs sleep in the subway
at Bloor and Shaw, a bed of bones
under the rumbling track. The storm
that lit the city with the voltage
of spring, when we were eighteen
on the clean earth. The ferry ride in the rain,
wind wet with wedding music and everything that
sings in the carbon of stone and bone
like a page of love, wind-lost from a hand, unread.