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"After the Funeral" - Christine Grimes

The first sleet of the season melted
against my windshield as I wound
through country curves,
the sun already sinking at 4:30
as November plods on.

Usually it snows
by Halloween in the North Country.
Powder bunches on fences,
even tombstones,
but this year t he ground stayed
brittle and dry, like the husk
of someone you once knew.

Barns were buttoned
up against the chill, cracks
of warmth and light
shone from shuttered doors.
And, there was something
about the bluing dusk,
the empty road
and the ice falling
slow enough
to make the world blur
that promised the cold
was only beginning.