We are bare beneath
the shadows of the leaves
looking up at nothing until
looking is what we become.

Yes, November becomes you
and, like December, you words
will soon dissolve to snow,
flakes clustering around us
in perfect symmetry, domed
above our heads.

An igloo in the barren land.

Slowly, slowly, we will thaw,
faces raw with feeling
lips pressed with spring ice,
the stubborn thing.

We will stretch our arms out
to the Northern sky
and like the needle of a compass,
glide home,
leaving only snow angels
behind us.