Our November.

A thousand tree tops,
Undulated in the crisp,
November wind.
Like old,
flaccid paintbrushes,
They briskly painted,
The crimson sky,
To a beautiful blue.


You sat across from me,
Twitching your lips,
Wiping your brow,
Cringing your eyes,
Gulping your words.
Like an infant waiting,
To be fed with words,
For a cue.


I smiled,
Ruffled your hair,
Patted your jowls,
And drew patterns,
Of sundry sweet-nothings,
On the clear sky.