november

the steam rising from the ceramic
mug on the kitchen counter
floats through the tepid air
and the sound of cars rushing by

fills the silence. the hum of lightbulbs
hides behind like music never-ending and
their dim glow fills the room on the
early morning. the windows are frosty

with the mist rising from the grass
and the bitter chill of the mornings that slide
between the late, dying fall and the winter
coming after. there is no season now

no season but the cold, but not the frozen
kind of cold that kills everything and takes
away every breath of heat; no, it is the
cold that is only dipping its toes in the water,

getting a glimpse of the power of its chill.
it is the cold that tugs on a heart and tugs
on the last, hanging leaves on the bare branches
and eats away at the last bit of green in the

misty grass. and the cold doesn't pervade through
everything yet. it merely seeps into the walls,
but not the house. the sky, but not the lungs.
the cold that is crisp, hesitant, but ready.

and soon this halfway weather will
with a whip of the wind, gain courage and
explode across the clouds, freezing over
all the air and letting the chill

embed itself in everything. and then winter
will be crossing our doorstep and the
mornings will no longer be slightly cold
and then the ceramic coffee mug will really steam.