It’s the first of November
and I wake to find
a shiver of snow
outside my room.
The quiet street
is dressed in white:
the telephone wires,
the slanted roof,
the old magnolia tree.
I watch a bird
as he flits and flutters
from bough to bough
beneath the true-blue sky.
The moon, meanwhile,
lingers, leftover,
by the morning sun,
like a hope of love
fading reluctantly
into the frosted air.