November fog (poetic thought by George B)

November fog

(poetic thought by George B)

Love is a smudge of a hand,

on the  foggy  window

smelling of fog, of a cold November night

making its way through the layers of coats

overcoats,  and to cling to skin and bones in a solid embrace – brrrrrrrrr  rhythmically –

 for few long minutes, dripping on the rugs

with a washing like motions hands reach for heat

almost into the fireplace’s wood fire,

while the fog dissipates.