Last Days of November

Dark fell quick and
a dead of winter wind
found a pitch and blow
that screamed as it
squeezed into small cracks
in newish combination windows.

The howl of it

circled round and pushed

supernatural energy into

tight places that

hide the deepest secrets,

pierce sleep and tell all.

The three nights that end

the month are suspended 

between the day of the dead

and the birth of a savior;

quiet on the books yet

pull old souls into dreams.

 

Like Dickens’ characters,

one is dead and gone,

another alive, omniscient,

the third a whisper

who lives beyond 

what might be.

Morning raises the shade,

legs twisted in pillow

and blanket knots,

withered tendrils of 

dying greens rooted in soil

but dead on the ground.