Slowly Rolling into the Cold

Getting ready
for winter
takes most of fall
and we're still
not willing
even by January
for skies to split
with liquid glass
to coat
the world greasy
in rainbows
to bury
our hearts
neck deep
in stiff mud
to leave us
with one
wool sock on
a three dog night
to crave butterscotch
early Sunday morning
and the Pig is closed
to stoke
a fire
instead and
sip on
yellow
root
tea
to settle for
first light
chickadees
and blue.

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What the Muses Leave Behind

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