This seems like November:
chilly drizzle falling on a dark morning,
bare branches in soft silhouette,
matted leaves drenched in the grass,
no hint of dawn in the eastern sky,
just a vague notion of lessening darkness.
Seasons may be defined by weather
but days more by the way we wear them.
I could pull out some old mood from the closet
and wrap it around me like moss in the shadows.
But I think instead I will be glad
that I was able to rise from a bed not made of clay
and embrace the good air of this good day,
learn well from an honest mistake,
treasure the touch of a loving hand,
return understanding for some intended sleight
and be at least some bit of light
underneath an overcast sky,
a gentle reflection of a greater source.