The dimmest light
of early morning 
glazed across city
like thin orange 
icing atop eclairs 
creating a sweet
and delicate sheen 
an almost apricot 
wetness found only 
on the faces
of those lucky 
enough to be 
biting tender fruit
in late summer
so is November 
in these mountains 

The last of
the leaves cling
tightly to barren
limbs shaking weary 
in strong winds 
the weak having 
already gone away 
the few that 
remain count days 
before the first 
snow finally falls 

Barricade of blue
above the mountains 
warns the clouds 
you shan’t pass
and like onlookers 
who slowly gather 
at crime scene 
or maybe protest 
they hold their 
line waiting patiently 
for the sun
to wedge between 
like some negotiator 

The pace slows
to a crawl 
no hurry here
like first steps 
after the crawl 
the first few
inch by inch 
before becoming feet
and eventually miles 
then back to 
crawl and quiet
and finally play 

From far off
miles maybe feet
maybe even lifetimes 
I can hear 
the door knocker
of some apartment 
down the hall 
rattle with announcement
metal against metal 
less cymbal and 
far more cold
and I wonder 
when and why 
and how mine 
might ever do