November Chills.

Not sure about this, a totally different format for me.

She sits, cold-stiffened hands warmed

briefly, with the rubbing together

of age weathered fingers.

Chills begin to associate themselves 

with knees, slowly meandering towards

ankles innocent of any warmth.

Her slippers, poor value against the intrusion.

Outside the air bites with sharp perfection.

Trees unclothed, shiver against their

brothers, a few last falling leaves are stolen

by mists roaming listless, across

this forlorn November day.

© sweetwater 2023
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