poetry & things

Cold of November

Now these clouds, the cold mean greys

sideways rain, the north lands I remember

the drowning air of smoke and fire

nights traveling the dark road to your home

the black and spark of stars we watched

through the night before the killing dawn

before the fog, the cold that held us down

the clinch and grasp, the slow stinging wasp

the allure and hum of bees

the honey meadows of scattered petals

only a fleeting summer – we gathered

now swallowed in the autumn thunder,

the bruising cold of November.

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