Edging the highway,
trees the color of smoke.
Brittle and ashen faced bark
reaching up. And below
roots walk in leaves
that sound like burning.
Soft brushes of sunset shades
still crackling damp and dark.
The sky smells like snow,
lush fabric of woven ice,
gray and wet and cold.
Closing my eyes this moment,
even tears taste like winter. |
Submission Name: Driving Home In November
