Death on the Doorstep

November lies on my doorstep,
one last yellow leaf, encrusted
in killing frost.

This is the way of it. Things die,
sometimes murdered in a flash of anger,
othertimes tortured, slowly starved

of love, forced to wither in a private
and well decorated hell, until of course,
the end.

The lucky ones die in love,
the sun beating down on them
like a kiss, late in the day. .

You pick up the leaf, breaking it
free from the ice, and hold it,
suddenly unsure of the seasons,

unsure if the warmth you feel
is real, or a tease
before the end.