November


Winter comes and children
Cry alone in dark rooms,
Staring out on ashen trees.

With the first bite of morning,
Something withers inside.
Taking steps along the path,
Kicking leaves through dead grass.

The cold wind will bring on night's fire.
Reflecting flames hold summer's blaze
And bring it burning to the tongue.


©2016 Michael Fraley




Back to Poem-O-Rama