I can feel the imminent chill.
Oak leaves shiver on the outside
Of my thinly-draped window panes.

It is a half day.

The white-blue of southern sky
Shyly hides behind a most discourteous wind.
Discomfort rides in on a distant breath.
The encroaching climate pushes its way
Across this pitifully defenseless
November afternoon.

Here, in my room,
I can only stare in abject disbelief
As this bitter tide tries in vane
To force itself into my lungs.
I pull my ragged clothes around me,
Guarding my skin against the first attack
Of autumn’s antagonistic stir.

If it were spring I would rejoice
On such a day as this!

The sun, the white-blue sky, the dancing branches,
Insistent messengers, each, in turn,
To gain my full attention.

Sadly, their notes do not convey
The hoped for forecast of a warm weather front.
Instead, I hear a blithe warning,
A whimpered apology.

Between the restless shadows tapping on the glass,
The whispered word that winter comes.



Michael S. True
11-7-13