Under this cloud that is November
this haunting ever-present mist
that cloaks everything in autumn
we brood, waiting for snow.
Dark blue berries on the naked ivy fingers
that tremble outside our damp brick walls
linger as meagre stipends for the squirrels
that scavenge erratically among them.
Wet winds winnow greying grasses combing
their leafy dander into corners shared with
ragged notes, grocery lists, labels, invoices
blown out of lives and into mulching decay.
This is all hard harbinger
of the crystal doom
gathering in the sky
crust for our hard hearts.
