Deana Prock

Deana Prock lives and writes in Brooklyn, NY. She has recently completed her Master’s Thesis in English Literature, and her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in BloodLotus, Boston Literary Magazine, Full of Crow, and others.

November

Today,
I do not want to get out of bed.
Like all things November, the trees
on my street are bare-
defrocked by early snow,
chilled winds.

Those same winds toss the lids from
garbage cans- forcing an apologetic
collection from the neighbor’s
yard. As if I willed them there
myself, stirring the breeze-
letting them fly.

I hold my breath and listen-
praying for a leftover bird. A
sign that not every creature
craves southern migration,
that gray sustains life-
when green is absent.

The sudden blast of a
leaf blower crashes into
the morning, blowing
away the signs of decay
on an impatient,
artificial gust.

What good are feet set upon
cold, wooden floors?
I pull the blankets higher, dream
of falling leaves.

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