Our November was more like December; white
Now December has been for the most part, November gray…
The fog lies long and lower than the treeline by the fence
It lolls upon the sullen lawn in moody dissonance
The far side of the yard is veiled like nature’s mourning bride
Home is a charcoal button on a mist-cloaked countryside
Sight cannot satisfy its wanderlust; where is the sky?
Is it still blue above this mute and morbid lullaby?
Where middle-day is drowsy in silk-muffled filigree;
Time’s gossamer appointments mantled in a weightless sea
Soulful and sorrow-like it sweeps in soundless magnitude
The pastureland is swaddled in a stance meek and subdued
Dusk overtakes the afternoon at three o-clock or four
Earth is a muffled moment-drop on heaven’s ocean floor
© Janet Martin