5909 Harbord Drive

On summer mornings, there were dolls
Rows of dolls bathed in sunlight,
And the sound of the creek, gentle against the mud.

In the winter, the dolls smiled, porcelain in soft gray light.
And the creek raced by, loud and swollen.

But there was always orange juice in tall, clean glasses,
And playmates with sunburned faces and dirty hands.

And in the evenings, we would run to greet our father,
Soft little feet on cold brick, beating silly rhythms into the soil.

He would emerge, tall and smiling from the soft pines,
And we would fall against him, laughing and screaming and singing and living.

And the night would be warm and quiet.

Everything was simple there, in that little brown house.
Days passed and trees grew and words rhymed,
And all was well.

But it all disappeared in a blur of cardboard boxes and sloppy tears,
Slowly, the sound of the creek faded to static silence.

And now, on winter mornings, the dolls never smile.