Looms

These oddly summery days will soon end. Then, the November sky will reclaim its accustomed mantle of clouds, and the golding leaves be strewn by chill winds. Day by day, the branches of the oaks will emerge as their foliage decays, and more sky will be embraced by their twiggy lattices. Already, flowers lately blooming have turned brown and brittle, the few warm days powerless to revive them. Tonight I'll watch the waning moon light the failing leaves, and listen for flocks of geese and swans returning, and rarely shiver from cold until dawn nears. This could be the season's last mild night. Outdoors, then, and let the house lie undisturbed by the television's chatter or the computer's whir. December looms.

( Sunday Verse )