Eask

Sweet November:
with your ending
that's always bitter.
Your smile beckons gray
skies like a melody.

Oh sleeted, slated hours,
I recall the ashen rain.
Hollow coffee and sugared pain.
here in that space called Imagination--
I chipped cups with sad anticipation.

Staring.
Silent November,
you are much more to me
than a man,
than a month--
Kismet? Kiss me?
or Kill Me.
I only want purity
in these feelings that seem to swerve
in the food that you daily serve.

To love is
To melt the glacial distance
between counter and table
street to blue sky fabled
I'd become the winter mud,
if only to remember

the flowers of your spring.