it's already too cold and there's no baseball and it gets dark too early.
it takes forever to stop sneezing in the mornings
and the heater is old and gets too hot or not at all.
i stumble into today and say scissors when i mean sunglasses,
except i really don't mean sunglasses,
i mean glasses to see with,
to peel potatoes and break blue eggs for breakfast with.
it is one of those mornings when i thought i had an onion but i didn't.
warm air slips out of the house,
escaping through cracks in the windows
and my cold toes take it personally.
tuesday looks gray and i can see reflections of the fairy lights in the windows and across the glass of photographs hanging on the wall in just the right places. when i move around, the lights follow me in all the mirrors. the temperature and leaves are falling in perfect rhythm with each other, and the cat is asleep atop boxes filled with art supplies, her new favorite once-again spot. the tv is on with no sound. across the street, the ginkgo tree has gone that suddenly gold that tells me it's november at last.
another small morning.
no birdsong, no squirrels.
just moments of wind and leaves.
and suddenly warmer toes.