It is November.
It is twilight.
A cloudy, blue-milk sky
covers Water Row.

Those tree tops already belong to night.
The last light rises like a fog.

Everything worth remembering departs.
Only faith tells me it will return.

But here something strange lies on
the ground. In descending dark, the
withered leaves begin to glow, like
stars hidden behind the day, invis-
ible in their multitude and millions. I
see colors now that brown cannot contain,
these shrouds of death that light my
way, on Water Row.

November 29, 2006

All written material © Bill Schechter, 2016
Contact Bill Schechter