The Streets Of Kingston

Leaves descending to the asphalt, cold and chill
from the breeze, the foliage is changing
its colors and the calling of winter beckons
in the distance. Like Fall in Kingston,
burning in the cold chills,
Niagara slowly hardens itself in the freeze.
Old Victorian houses scream of past
lives lived. Toronto lingers
in thoughts, in nostalgia, memories
forgotten some time ago—memories savoring
those moments lost, those moments yearned.
And the cold chills continue to make its
presence known, causing goose bumps
to rise and skin chap and crack in their dryness.
Leaves ripen in new colors as if their
lives are beginning, descend
to their death, to the unpredictability
of change. A blizzard falls
in my thoughts, craving for that
nostalgia. A blizzard blowing
winter’s memories of some years
ago, some ages when my feet
roam the streets of Kingston.

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