November Second
Needles so deep,
I can’t hear my own steps,
only rain that filters through cypress,
the morning sounds of sea-bound birds.
Even the dog is oddly quiet, sensitive
to the change in me and our daily routine.
At the turning,
I am at ease in this place
where there’s no need for gloves and rake—
no frantic effort to remove the silence
that softens the ache of a solo journey,
yet another season passing.