Late November feels like summer
in the Texas south where heat
won’t let go of the thermometer
leaving weathermen reading tea leaves
trying to see if next week will predict a sweater.
Outside my window there’s green grass,
a lone butterfly, and tiny bees who
still feed on heather that continues to bloom.
I can’t put summer clothes away because
Thanksgiving’s warmth won’t stare into
a crystal ball to tell me if Christmas
will boil or spill ice on tree limbs.
I confess my holiday spirit has yet to arrive.
It’s stuck somewhere on Amazon with an
empty cart waiting for faux holiday cheer.
Oh, my mood is a Grinch, my mind Stephen King
raking adjectives into piles, and my pen is
Charles Dickens before he sent Scrooge his first ghost.
©Susie Clevenger 2025
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