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.