November

November
with sepia brush and mist
now monotones the year.
Winds, grown pacifist
whimper in broken thirds
with muted birds.
Oaks are umber,
ashes like clean–picked bones,
and sweet hedge–lumber
sunk into quaker–tones.
The worn grass draggles
like a wet cat.
Rooks' flight straggles,
and they caw flat.
Shorn curls of trees
lie like soaked paper
in the rain's lees.
Day's taper
wickers to early close.
The year has turned to prose.
Only the mistletoe
set on the withered arm
of this old apple tree,
like a green charm,
says yes to winter's no.