Confronting November

With its dark shadows airborne,
a coven of witches has
silently taken to the midnight sky.
If only they would honk,
dispel the chill that has been cast.

Having dispensed with costumes,
the night now defines us.
Intently, the stars stare and judge.
In their ancient presence
voices are humbled to a whisper.

Time has lost track of our steps.
In the distance between
streetlights we turn into specters.
Confronted by winter’s
enormity, its epoch consumes us.

Breath now an evaporating cloud,
futilely, we bury hands in
the dark corners of our pockets.
Ungloved, November’s
iron fist manifests its dominance.


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