Rik George writes

November

At the window I watch 
the treetop twigs
nervously scratch 
at the sky’s belly. 
They would tease out the snow 
to bury the grasses 
that rattle like bones 
as the wind passes. 
Letters on my table 
wait for my answers. 
I’ll answer them later. 
The kettle whistles 
the water is ready 
to embrace the tea. 
I let it whistle. 
The telephone jangles. 
I let the recorder 
pick up the message. 
I want to see 
the first flakes fall.


First Snow -- Leonid Afremov