There is a bit of gray
that has been swathed in through the
other colours fallen from the shelves
left dry brushes, palettes, on the rack.
Still there are many shades that show themselves
while gray takes root in
The lethargy of frost is one–
that makes its coven in the night
and casts a crystal spell in morning light.
Motley leaves will never tell their truths.
Mother’s wind may ease the sun.
Showing that the frost is dew, it
shimmers short and disperses.
The reckless facts abound in this mean season.
There are those who shy from midday dusk—
but others who will share
songs of scorn:
a hand to keep another’s warm at night.
But days fade, swallowed by the month—
breaths run from mouths into the gray—
cuddling into December.
And hands get cold.
And silk gets hard.
While nimble voices scarcely sing.
And the killing winter will come and sleep—
Quilted until the Spring.