I was chilly with the November breeze,
and it was a courtly thing you did
draping the sweater over my shoulders,
taking care to smooth the wool
with a touch that whispered
that later you would claim the garment,
and the shiver taking it would bring
was something you coveted
with breathless avarice.

“Sweater weather,” you said.
And I am swept like a crisp oak leaf
into a duvet and down dream,
where the pillows do not speak
of the warm, the moments large and small
when I nestle near you,
demanding that arms dress me
to close kept comfort.

Arms around my waist,
legs entwined to akimbo,
and my last thought before sweet drowse
is that fall will never come
without you to chase the cold
in the season of sweater weather.

©2008, Lisa Shields

Lisa Shields resides in New Jersey. Her first collection of poetry was released from Iriswhite Publishing in 2005. She has poems in all three of our other seasonal anthologies: “Calling Card” and “Pinked” in the spring collection, “Wisteria Woman” in the summer collection, and “Reaching for White” in the winter collection.

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