Smokey shreds of cloudfur
left over from some airborne catfight
tumble across the silver sky.
Geese above them angle hurriedly for the south
a little later than usual, but the sun seemed like it would never go.
In November, light seeps through air,
brushes the earth hesitantly;
the silvery warmth that gleams is remembered
like a lover's embrace long after he is gone.
Sunfire has lost its robust flavor by the time it reaches the Northern Hemisphere;
it wearily pours silver over the land
like an old woman who wants to die unburdened by riches.
Bulky willow leans tiredly on roots,
burrowed deep beneath the frost that filigrees
fallen leaves with a fine tracery of silver.
Silver birch point proudly at the hazy sun
which glints on something
as forgotten as springtime.
Nestled in the rustling blanket
a battered silver glow, that ring I wore,
where it was dropped to be remembered only by the cold.
This page copyright to Sarah Morehouse, January 15, 2000.