The Dead of a Gray November

When the air is still,

and descending the hill

the road is bending

beneath a November sky

of soft rose hues

and cloudy blues,

we walk there – you and I.

Though no words are said,

we remember the dead

of a gray November

as we walk through the trees

with branches bare

that tremble there

despite no wind nor breeze.

The stares that I catch

from the words I dispatch

under silent birds

to seemingly no one in sight

stir in my heart

an angry start

that tears at my lonely delight.

Yet somewhere, nagging

my mind – snagging

those long-lost aches unkind

from the dark days I hate to remember,

I can recall

your coffin and all

that I lost in the dead of a gray November.