Sweater Weather

I ache for the cold,

the crisp bite of chill

that slips through doubled window panes

to send shivers down skin at first light.

The muted revelry of late fall,

as reckless leaves

clad in gaudy finery

leap into gutters and storm drains,

collecting earthy scents in their

deep drifts.

Trees creaking their bare bones

as evening approaches ever earlier,

muttering softly in the deep silent winds

that winter carries in her wake.

Summer is stagnation.

This gluttonous warmth causes strange discontent --

I need to let months of sweat evaporate

and breathe the sharp scent of

promised snow.

Reviews

[Kelly Scheppers]

I've always loved the winter and the mention of seasons in general, in poetry. But there's something magical about the snow..."to breathe in the sharp scent of promised snow." Much enjoyed this offering, Ben!