november

These dead days of autumn's last,

when the hills give no place

for ghosts to hide;

with elusive daylight fading fast,

and haunting stars to guide,

this dry, barren land takes its last embrace

of all that was innocent,

and all that is past.



Looking through a kitchen window

which was cleaned yesterday- in spring,

down tight, and for the winter, closed,

leaves me to such somber imaginings

of cold I have most often opposed,

and yet, here a subtle warmth

in the wake of its coming.



What it is, I may not be aware,

by the conscious daily thought.

Rather,

in the deepest night, as a silent prayer

against all I've known

and have been taught-

you seem to linger there.