251111

 

 

This morning, a number on my iPhone shifted the season.

30°F. It’s only November, yet winter is already knocking.

I hurried into thermals and a sweater, threw on my new winter coat,

gloved hands bracing the cold—then came the soft taps on my face.

A light flurry drifting from the sky.

Autumn brushed past, and winter stepped in swiftly.

Perhaps all this change is the groaning of a creation we’ve failed to tend.

So I rise and walk on brittle bones,

oiling them with each step, even in this aging frame.