November 12

OPTIONAL POETRY

It seems unfair
to be tasked with motion

when all of nature
is still and frozen–

the first true frost puts
pallor on the cedar,

slips a chill past
the window,

blatant warnings
I would gladly head

if only I could,
instead of turning out

into darkness
ghosted by ice

to go someplace
I don’t want to be.

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