It is October. Wind tears leaves from trees and casts them about in hazy gray moonlight. There are ghosts around every corner. They are always there, but now the air is chilled just so, that you can see them flickering. There is no sound, except the emptying branches chattering above me. The facade of peacefulness is broken, now, by those flickering ghosts. They are sad and alone.

And with each long breath
I suck them down,
spiraling down my rasped gullet
to my pulsing, flexing guts

These spirits chill me completely,
to the center of my very bones,
and I only hope I give them
any warmth at all,
for all their trouble

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the sieve and the sand