Yellow bleeds into the leaves
outside my window, I wonder
do they feel themselves die, try
to spot the green giving way,
ponder the consciousness of
trees, imagine the branches
staring back in, whispering,
he’s looking so much stronger
these days, down to the roots.
You never touched my November,
let’s give thanks to that, nothing
to rinse loose amidst these
new early nights, playlists
shift from electropop wanting
to the soft acoustic strumming,
rest and romance and reveling,
poetry in everything, pressing
meaning into every minute
of the dissipating daylight.
Imagining the future is
a love language, as is
making a meal and
presenting it on the couch,
watch with wide eyes at
the first bite, we should
catch a show or
bike to the brewery before
it gets too cold, we should
go, but let’s stay, is a
language, planting roses
on the eve of some November.
michael king 