Smoke stained snowdrifts

from cars of exhausted travelers

line hazardous Highway 402

Flurries come and go

on our way to Hamilton

to read from Canada’s

oldest poetry publication

with age-old friends, and new


Bare branches of maple trees

scrawl black ink signatures

across a pale yellow

winter sky


White horse

in snow-filled meadow

standing patiently

in graceful symmetry

catches my eye

perhaps a poem-to-be




Text Box: Norma West Linder

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