Late November feels like summer
in the Texas south where heat
won’t let go of the thermometer
leaving weathermen reading tea leaves
trying to see if next week will predict a sweater.
Outside my window there’s green grass,
a lone butterfly, and tiny bees who
still feed on heather that continues to bloom.
I can’t put summer clothes away because
Thanksgiving’s warmth won’t stare into
a crystal ball to tell me if Christmas
will boil or spill ice on tree limbs.
I confess my holiday spirit has yet to arrive.
It’s stuck somewhere on Amazon with an
empty cart waiting for faux holiday cheer.
Oh, my mood is a Grinch, my mind Stephen King
raking adjectives into piles, and my pen is
Charles Dickens before he sent Scrooge his first ghost.
Dec 5, 2025
Dec 5, 2025 at 6:14 PM UTC
Late November feels like summer
in the Texas south where heat
won’t let go of the thermometer
leaving weathermen reading tea leaves
trying to see if next week will predict a sweater.
Outside my window there’s green grass,
a lone butterfly, and tiny bees who
still feed on heather that continues to bloom.
I can’t put summer clothes away because
Thanksgiving’s warmth won’t stare into
a crystal ball to tell me if Christmas
will boil or spill ice on tree limbs.
I confess my holiday spirit has yet to arrive.
It’s stuck somewhere on Amazon with an
empty cart waiting for faux holiday cheer.
Oh, my mood is a Grinch, my mind Stephen King
raking adjectives into piles, and my pen is
Charles Dickens before he sent Scrooge his first ghost.
I started this in November, and finally got back to finishing it.
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