This is a poem I wrote years ago. It’s one of my few attempts at poetry that I think is worthwhile.
The sky before dawn is grey and wrinkled as the sea.
The trees stand against it
with the hopeless courage of an outnumbered army,
black-ink drawings on pale paper,
hidden and revealed by shifting veils.
The fallen leaves make no sound beneath my feet,
all their color leached away by the chilly mist.
My hands in my pockets clench tight against the cold
And my feet are icy.