Small Weathers · Poem 1 of 6
First Frost
This morning the garden turned to glass overnight and nobody asked it to.
Every leaf a held breath. Every web a small chandelier hung for no one.
I stood in the doorway in socks and did not go out, the way you don’t wake someone who has finally fallen asleep.
Small Weathers
A poem or three on the first of every month. Light, wind, porches, and the people on them.