Thursdays Could Be November

Thursdays could be November

dressed in rust

wrapped in gray

and blurred by fog

filled with echoes

of long sighs

death, not quite done

warmth, not quite gone,

and sapphire skies

paling into Carolina longing.

An ember leaf floats in a puddle

my breath crystalizes in the mist

and the buds of spring,

that hope for renaissance,

transfiguration,

life,

rests in the twilight of tomorrow.