November snowmelt
Like a wounded soldier’s
Tattered linens
Spread across fields of battle
Exposing the decay
Of an autumn in hasty retreat
Lamenting its loss

The early snow
Shocked the senses
And full trees
Shed their slightly green leaves
In thick patches
Immovable in the weighted wet earth

I miss the dry cool days
With bright sunshine
That warms just enough
To suggest solstice is coming
But not yet, but not yet