November

Look everyone
A little slipper of a moon
Hanging coyly over Tappan Park
Flirting slyly behind a fan of inky black trees
Blowing you a kiss.

A crimson maple
Blushes
To think that I am infatuated

As the brisk wind wraps its fingers
In both our hair.
It snarls at the sound;
Metal fingers grate asphalt pates
Blustery
Yellow
Slick like spit.
A feathery fabric flies high
In its billowing embrace.
Leaves.
Ignoble glyphs
Alone.
Long for your return.

Alas.

Winter approaches.