Ageless through the underclouds

November Morning

Mornings weave this way in November,
busy violins catching every stitch, moving
ageless through the underclouds like winds
lost to wherever they go when they finish.

Tress dance their boughs as though seized
with excitement at the hands of invisible
things, paper chases other paper torn from
whatever use no longer has use for them.



We are like this, you and I, barming staves
in unheard frettings along unseen updrafts
pulled down for brief musics between small
silences that overtake us sweetly in the end.

So stone holds its own before the shameless
surrender of reddened leaves, vines stripped
of fruit take autumn in for the long sleep ahead
when ice blankets all that seek such comfort.

Joseph Gallo
November 8, 2012