On The First Of November

This air is charmed.
This breeze sweet.
I’m without you but trees.
They sway congratulatory tones.

I’m in love with the weather,
this brick building and fields.

There is a farm with steel landscapes
behind hundred year old leaves.

My feet scratch on gravel
and listen to that sweet breeze.

The sky is absent - taking rest.
I’m eating pumpkin pie
on the first of November.

I feel good.