an evening drive

after november the sky falls,
and winter becomes a soft smell
that slips in and out of my consciousness

crystals interlace their fingertips on my windshield
and my son asks if he can hold a crescent moon

we can’t be so sure of such things, i tell him
he nods, and tries to catch the clouds instead

and i roll my eyes toward heaven
because in the background of life
she will always be dying, again