1

 
 
In mid-November, a dark autumnal day,
leaves shuffle underfoot, drift in the wind.
Each leaf a little hand stretched out –
a letter, inscribed with tiny branches,
limbs.  A letter from a tree gone bare,
expecting no reply.  Soon snow will fall.

 
Each day I walk down Dove Street
with your shadow – talking to you,
talking to myself.  Drab gray alleyway
cluttered with crooked telephone poles...
here gray pigeons waddle, wavering
and purring, across gray asphalt,
underneath gray skies.
      
                        Shadows
of turtle-doves, wings flitting overhead;
glimmer of gold oak and maple leaves;
desolate, diminished Jack o’lanterns
huddling with crazy smiles against
gray doorsteps (lumps of faded orange).

 
Hidden in the twilight season, camouflaged
in gray, whispering down a hidden street
with you, my phantom (leftover from 
Halloween).  Toward the harbor – where
dim light from a low star threads
across gray water, and doves collect
along the iron rail, and shuttling leaves 
float, mutter... whirl against the pier.