November

November the lost souls have returned mumbling then roaring day and night around the windows and doors. perhaps they are jealous of the warmth that melts them into puddles of discontent across the threshold. clouds streak the skies like ancient winding sheets grey and feathered about their edges threatening to smother any cheer that crosses through the pre-winter chill. yet far into the dusk, red appears like a distant beacon, a ray of hope. the fray-fingered trees lose their frightening qualities as they turn toward the horizon. the wolves howl becomes a carol owls murmurs soften, into streams of angel wings passing in the almost night. snow begins, at first tentative single flakes then bundles and wafts cover the raw land soften, sanctify swell upon the nakedness. all that is harm backs away, slinks into crevices before the lady's coming, before the Christmas spirit.