November Ghosts

November gray
mutes the dawn.
Frost-cataracted windows
blur birch silhouettes;
their trunks retreat
without movement
and shed pale, elusive flesh
into the aftermath of autumn,
unseen hands
undressing yesterday's bones.

Discarded rumors,
skeletons of leaves,
dried sacrificial-red,
flake and waver
in the half-mirrored pool,
their resistance bleeding
into resignation,
reverberating in a veiled landscape.

Ghosts dance out of the mist
from the pool
and untangle from barren limbs
defying surrender.
I strain at their silent voices,
songs promising bitter-sweet pain,
and lean back into myself
lip-reading the fluidness of the past.

Drew A. Foster