November-Gray December

 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