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.
Copyright © Patricia Cresswell | Year Posted 2017
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