A Poem for a Rainy Sunday

Every year, November

rain comes in thin
metal sheets tearing
last leaves from trees
pins them to sidewalks
mapping a path to winter

grey comes to shade
clouds like slim boats
hung on steeples
needling the skies
to hold autumn in place

night comes quickly
after noon to hurry day
away, slow blooming frost
covers the ground, windows
with the dying breath of gods