It was yesterday
when I saw a woman swallowed
by Winter. Her splintered back
like an archway and her face
so chipped you could see bleeding
memories seeping from her skin–lines etched
from the corner of her eyes like
our car, pushing her trolly right
as Winter sprouts. A blanket
of whiteness engulfs the empty
crosswalk. And her. At the green light,
Mother reminds me
to look forward. As we flee
I only see her fractured body
crumpling like paper.
Winter reminds me of
watching the hue
on Mother’s sunflowers turn
golden, then shrivel in December–
draped by sorrow. Their silhouettes
wrinkled in invisible residue.
Outside the window I search
a blank canvas for
the woman’s heart.
Until the ground and the horizon meet,
I am drowned in
George Sun is a sixteen-year old Chinese-Canadian poet from Canada. His work appears in The Source, Polar Expressions, and Poetry in Voice, among others. Apart from writing, you can find him assembling jigsaw puzzles or playing basketball.