Fall

She never liked November,

The senility of autumn,

Failing sunlight,

Dotage of the annual decline.

The squirrels are playing tag

Defiant over barren limbs

Outside the window.

She is staring out the glass.

I doubt she sees them.

Something falls

Inside of her

Along with leaves and mercury.

I slightly squeeze her tender arm,

Her chilly skin

So softly pliant.

I doubt she sees me.

- 1/22/26