I scare myself with my own desert places. --Robert Frost As I’m sitting Watching clouds roll The wind punishing My hair, I’m reminded There are winds on Mars, Dust demons Paint the air. Another place Much

The bitter scent of Maples, Dust and rain, Make this street A remembered pain. Dark and secretive Windows gleam, Breaking my heart With things I've seen. You are barren Totally forgotten As the Moon’s

Fran and I had inherited a Victorian row house in the Kensington district of Toronto. The Windfall House as I called it should have comforted me—after all, it was passed down through my family all the

Rain is falling As I am falling Into a sadness now, Out of bed I'd end in the woods Darker than blacker boughs; I won't be nearer To you then—in ways Further away, Better stay within To dream and pretend

A man vows, and yet will not cast away the means of breaking his vow. Is it that he distinctly means to break it? Not at all; but the desires which tend to break it are at work in him dimly, and make their

Rain darkens everything: Each drop A black grain of misery Holding All the world’s pain And none of its sympathy; ... And it’s pouring again Beating a rhapsody A tin pan cacophony Down narrow alleyways

It begins with isolation, Blank stares and faces, Demons In desolate places. No one seeks To be oppressed, Simply suffers And accepts. Yes, I digress— To speak of desert monks Temptations And apparitions,

Christmas is a necessary festival; we require a season when we can regret all the flaws in our human relationships: it is the feast of failure, sad but consoling. ― Graham Greene I spent my Christmas Eve

The coloured windows of the houses dance Like the happiest of dreams before me, In this snow that hides Your house from mine. And you must be at the window Watching the storm Drive numberless flakes from

I I’m the same As when I dreamt Of you, Before I knew Your name; Before I journeyed To your city, In hopes Of starting Life again. I’m the same As I first saw you, From afar Across a room; Your sister

I wake and sense The snow Sifting Past the window, Blindly seeking Completion After the law Of beginnings and ends. Like this poem A turning inward To the soft warmth Of your body; Like this poem The hours

'But you were always a good man of business, Jacob,' faltered Scrooge, who now began to apply this to himself. 'Business!' cried the Ghost, wringing its hands again. 'Mankind was my business; charity,

“She has a look," I said, "of not altogether belonging to today.” ― Robert Nathan I'm sitting in the Clinton Tavern with Kath, a girl I rescued from the rain. She was wandering the streets with

I want to depict you, Paint you in words , But you know me— Your impoverished lover With a Scrabble bag Of letters. It’s my infirmity To be ethereal Not know your touch, But sense your soul. Each night

The historical sense involves a perception, not only of the pastness of the past, but of its presence ― T.S. Eliot I rescued a girl I found dazed and wandering in the rain and took her back to my Flatiron

But how else can we live, these days, except in the midst of ruin? —Atwood The Moon asleep In a blue haze Up in the dark heights, And you somewhere Thinking of me Adrift in a jumble of lights. I regret

A rainy walk At night Will cure almost anything. I want it so much, Beloved, For this storm to give me Dark words of love… The same ones That broke your heart. So, take off your sweater In the dark; Make

There is at Christmas time a great deal of hypocrisy, honourable hypocrisy, hypocrisy undertaken with good motive, but nevertheless hypocrisy! ― Agatha Christie Beth I never approved the practice of turning

These nights, these nights, The soul’s limitations; Everything cramped— Too large for spaces. I'm fearful Of the lamps’ oases, Obliterating Our magic places. A giant eraser Used with caution Could exorcise

Being a woman is a terribly difficult task, since it consists principally in dealing with men. —Joseph Conrad I'm being pushed and pulled by two neighbours to see things their way—and on my own land. I