November lurks through the fog
The outside calls
I keep my log among the logs
My feet get cold
She runs and pants and smiles
As we add up the miles
Something looms over its net
I miss my loom in this nest
I wish I could weave a cozy hide
To wrap myself in, blindside
What lurks through November’s fog
Haunting the pages of the logs.
And for the spooks
And the worth
And for the books
And the mirth
– It’s still time.
We’ll get by.
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