Witch's Teeth

Winds rush heavy, telephone lines
playing jump rope with ghosts,
and piling the last of autumn's
golden tears against the house.

Across the slate stillness of the river,
the hills are barren of life, stark naked
trees with their branches clacking
together like old witch's teeth.

The forced isolation, a daily routine,
it's sadness alive in the lack of footprints
smudged on the welcome mat,
gray skies permeating everything.

Melancholy has arrived, tugging at the corner
of my mind. How long the days
already feel before the blanket of white
even strikes the ground.