Surfing Up to November

Deep November, a shallow time, nonetheless. The snow is high packed with a cryogenic amnesia. Not yet dawn, a sunken bed muffles rising thoughts. An eyelash of cognizance flits across thawing synapses. Then the elastic nature of sleep and wakefulness snap alive! November is howling still, like a stray dog it scratches at my window - wanting in. For a while intelligence is a thorn in my paw. Outside of the brain, November is the same, the darkness is still deep, and friable as charred bone, yet by now I am a candle flaring, a flicker and gleam within a neuronal time-machine, and mind-surfing on an ever-cresting awareness.