Pale flakes float to charcoal slate,
Tumble onto hard packed ice
that has already engulfed  the garden path.
Scratched frost, crystals with silent stinging bite.
They line the garden fence and cap the swingset.
November nights are drawing in,
it's nov. third, and the kettle sings next to a calendar of red crosses, marking the days that have passed me by and the "sleeps until" for the twins. A quiet kitchen, womb to the outside world until the door opens - a shocking birth into a white winter. November has always been a rushed month, a countdown, a month for planning, details
and not quiet stopping.
For now, I enjoy the quiet before the storm, or has the blizzard  already been and gone?
The snow will thaw, and where will we be
When all the nights of November are over.