Out the window through the branches
of the maples in the churchyard:
sorrowed singing of the bells,
’tis another day gone by.

And it gets so late so early
in this candlelit November,
all those hours of the night to
wish I could’ve asked him why.

And the wind against the windowpanes,
the tapping of my pen
upon a barely started letter
which I cannot seem to end.

And the leaves they swirl like dancers
in the road between the people,
collars turned against the autumn
and there go the bells again.