by Shoshauna Shy

One of those last lazy Sundays in October
after Canadian winds shunt in cold rain,
and here is a swale of warmth from the south
gifting that kind of sky you saw in July when
you rolled out of bed into cotton and silk.
This spackled sunlight brings back orange
popsicles at the boathouse so you yank off
corduroy; shrug out of alpaca; undo buttons,
snaps, zippers; swoop onto a bike; catch
the rag-tag calls of children chasing up Gregory
Street; wish back those balcony breakfasts of June
if only for one more short stack of pancakes
because here come the boots of winter again
with their seven long months of flannel.