the valley like a painter's brush
changing the landscape from
one shade to another... we
bask in the warmth of the
sun through window glass
like a cat warming its attitude;
leaves have all fallen to the ground
except for a few who have decided
the odds are in their favor... we
wear the trappings of the season
looking forward to its conclusions
as would students in a lecture;
rumors of rumors pass from one
to another, speculating in a random
way as to the future of our weather,
knowing all along that it is much
milder than it ever was before...
we pull the shades when dressing
expecting Tom's arrival sooner or
later even after moving from the
country to the outskirts of town;
a warming trend dances in our memory
wonding if it is full of truth or just
another belief to which we cling...
waves of cold brush through
the valley and we cringe at the idea
that warmth has abandoned us
and followed the migration of bird
instead while forgetting to convey
their goodbyes before leaving.
15 December 2021
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