The moon is lemon light, November cold.
The wind is blowing colors all apart.
Old leaves are writing their last signature
Upon the dimming windows of the world.
Time is a gray bird grazing fingertips.
It flies so far the mind cannot forge chains.
One feather falls like solace on bare hands,
An autumn gesture, yet how comforting!
A scent of snow is fragrant on the air.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008