November Looms

Long before there’s light,
he sees small patches of snow
glowing in the dark mulch
at the base of rosebushes,
clinging to rhododendrons.

By mid-day, no trace remains;
only the smell of wet soil
and lingering frost. The sun
is bright but sends no heat.
It might as well be only
what it is: only a light,   
a hundred million miles away.

A hundred million miles.
He calculates the airfare.

3 thoughts on “November Looms

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