November rain glues
like ashes in autumn sky,
We huddle tight as cows near the stove,
Yet refuse to know why,
Told stories wake up, chirping, like a dove.
The green river sits,
Admiring the ambitious willow trees next,
We envy eagles easy in their power,
Slicing the space without worrying about context.
“Don’t let your milk go sour!”
Words spell out, echoing,
The moon escapes a notch,
Ready to bounce back, any time soon;
Emptiness fills the room, cache,
Life, like the willow, a distant moon!