My Late November Wind
I heard you rushing through the dried leaves on the tallest trees on the ridge
Long before I felt you caress my face and run your icy tapered fingers through my hair.
Then away you went to rattle the limbs on the maple
And the gutters on the house
Before you continued your prancing through the woods.
Your song is of irregular beat and volume
As you dance into the night,
Painting a picture of frost and chills,
Of darkening days and snow-filled nights.
Of a time when life stands still.
You tell of cozy fires and
Of stories shared by loved ones,
Drawing us near for warmth.
But your breath tingles my skin and excites my blood.
I want to waltz with you through the swaying trees on the ridge,
To frolic and romp,
To paint everything lacy white,
To smile with delight at you,
My late November wind.
ã22 November 1993, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw. All rights reserved.
