"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 the brickmakers,
the floor of the ravine where light lies broken
with the memory of rivers. All the winters
stored in that 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.

First truly beautiful day today.  Warm, sunny, with just the right amount of breeze.  Took the bus to stroll along Westdale.  Browsed shops.  Tasted shwarmas and yogurt ice cream.  Talked about cards, comics, and bicycles.  Bought candy.  Sat on benches with chilled lates and mixed berry shakes.  So naturally this poem just seemed to fit with this moment.  Hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.