There is something unfinished here.
A pause not ready to fall. Breath not taken, or held.
An unopened book in the stillness of an afternoon.
The feeling of waiting.
Eyes leaning long on low shadows.
The day rises slowly and stretches thin across dull skies.
November is light's dance between grey clouds & the sun sitting on winter's fat ledge.
Not quite here or there, as if it can't decide.
Through the rain the air smells like snow.
Through the snow the day looks like spring.
If you were to stay here,
pressed in autumn's gray maybe the world would be silent
And time would stop falling away.
mlb 11/01/15
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