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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!
Jingle Nozelar 