A poem I wrote at this season, long ago...

November snow, a quilted white aphasia,
Scuttles past out-scoured features
and scattered faces in a man-made maze of
frozen glass and gritty concrete seizures.

Injected anasthesia grips the unreal city,
Smothers in a welcome chloroform of cold
My unanchored premonitions from a litany
Of autumn evils awkwardly foretold.

Wrapped in numb amnesia, snow, November's gift,
Soothes embattled senses, lures out illusion
To replace fragments of reality adrift,
As the intimacy of cold negates confusion

Gazing at the falling snow I am steeled
To weather now the world's insanity, congealed.