November

The trees are explosions

The air is an icebox

The people are balls of yarn

To Love, Or the Loved:

I shackled myself
And jumped behind bars,
And then I threw 
You the key.

But I never told you 
Why I was there,
So you never set
Me free.

You'd visit, I'd pay,
But want you to stay.
You'd leave, I'd weep
On the ground.

But echoing sobs 
Bouncing off bars
Have become 
A sweet (sort of) sound.