What Tell

What tell of this November chill?

Of midnight strolls through angled paths, cobbled roads,

ghost-yard vessels holding still?

Of seeking only state of heart

with crumbled leaves on summer dreams until,

oaths of trees ring fertile ground to till

Of silken indigo nights lit by brilliant borrowed parts

Of eastern orbed amber shock,

your own reflection mottled flaws, perfect art

Of fragmented sailing lines and ends of ropes

of untethered moon, celestial hopes

of circles cycled round,

of answers lost and found

without, within,

once again

beside you still

What tell of this November chill?

11.13.19

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