Dawn in November
Fingers
Rough, Rigid
Tendrils
Still
In an atmosphere
Empty of the breeze.
Every autumn
Is a cancer
Thriving only in its season
And in the being.
And all that’s left
Is a thin shadow,
Hairless,
Missing all it’s precious green.
Feet
Roaming, Raw
Roots
Beneath
A world
Trembling by the knees.
The ice
Is the lullaby
That resurrects the dreams
And slows the time
In its falling
Cotton puffs
Until warmth awakens
And, again, forms the green.