Later it would not be grey,
dismal, lukewarm, fall in waves.
Now it soaks the fallen leaves,
mutes their colors, strips the tree.

Clouds and fog…is fog a cloud
held close to the ground by grief
at the loss of summer? Half
harvest completed, work stalled.

City street lights dim above
stay on in the daynight gloom.
Windshield wipers swipe the storm.
There is nothing here to love.

– A cheerful verse 🙂 by Steve Shoemaker, Urbana, IL, October 31, 2013.