Leavening of Winter

Sunday, you are the caveman of days …

Leaves, you are crinkle-cut rain
dry morning wind tasting like a cigarette and coffee
your automatic cleaving of the morning shadow
your hesitation when the breeze pauses to consider the skyline
breeze, your hazelnut breath dry as a migratory route
a throat after coffee, disguising the hints the leaves leave behind

Millions of deciduous footballs, floaters of long-shadow dreams
your blanket ready to be scooped like nachos into the cheese dip of November

Sunday, you are the caveman of days
October, you are the lover of months
Lovers, you are not alone
in the leavening of winter

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