November is filled with barren trees, their branches rest beneath my skin like cold handprints lingering on a windowpane. Cut-out stories we have stitched into the seams of our pockets, words folded into paper shapes of a swan or perhaps a star fastened onto thick winter coats. Time adorned by silk blouses and throwing pennies in the well are long over; moth wings have settled in place. Little films of dust have been collecting quietly in a year of absence, too many cobwebs stored under a pillow case. Spending idle days between lumps caught in throats, crackling pines, printed words gasping for air, and woolgathering tufts of tangled threads.