In these few days between now
and Sunny Starstruck Summer,
we are Novemberists.
Roofs feel our toes that tip
and triptych in graceful arcs
over cold end-of-winter steel.
The ships roll in on the cool spring
swell, and though our heads are
heavy with winterings, our
eyes snap up to gaze at
a wake which has broken many
shore's peaceful slumber.
Up cold red steps, far up,
and over broken boundaries
we stumble, to discover all
that was forgot.
We hide with these, placing
hope in new beginnings, for dust
and time.
A moonrise, over the winding
body that holds us all together
reflects everything.