November wind I named a poltergeist
until today. Please stay. Your breath has blown
my cover and exposed my own dark sprite:
how cold is only cold when I’m alone,
and wet is only clammy, only damp
when I’m alone and naming adjectives and showers
for my skin, my hands, my feet who stamp
forgotten leaves, who fell across the flowers.
Not now! They fly and spin, now bright with dew
as high as shins, now not to be endured
with blame since you laughed “wet!” , since you
laughed “winds!”. December rains make paths obscured;
you puckish meadows’ silhouettes, caress
your welcome grasses on my festive dress.
TimothyOne 