Prelude to Winter

A tarnished pewter sky

peers through leafless branches.

Fog drifts and curls,

along the riverbanks and

hovers above the water.

Half a dozen geese float—

six dark shadows that

appear and disappear

as if they, too, were

mere mist and imagination.

The last forlorn light

leaches from the afternoon.

Suspended between seasons,

the days grow short;

the old year, feeling its age,

draws to a close.

Everything slows, quiets, fades,

until it seems the dreary days

will never end. Snow sweeps in,

making art of the drab browns,

the cheerless grays,

weighting the sad, dead grasses,

frosting every branch and twig

until the landscape looks luminous,

even on sunless days.

And when it does shine, oh! the brilliance

of it, the dazzling radiance.

There is beauty in the passing

of one season to the next,

even in grim November.