Where are you in Toronto?
It’s calling me, loud.
Like a mother calling her children, to come quietly home.
Are the trees budding there?
Like a young girl, shy and present.
The green coming through thick, bright.
Yet, the flowers aren’t blooming yet.
Because this is just the beginning.
We have only just started to break from the earth that holds us.
To find our color in one another.
Your reds, my orange.
You are primary, and I secondary.
But perfect on this canvas.
On this body.
That is only just branching.
Somewhere where Toronto doesn’t hold you.
But calls you home.