September towered above me quivering. I’d admired her instead of climbing as I’d learned, but there she was, and me behind.

I took up sprinting too late in November.

Two thumbs and a century of repetition ahead; December stalemate.  

She took the business – shook the hand.  
I mistook the sleep – out of reach.

Removed my red ones – We could have just touched.
Pulled on the wool ones – 

January gloves.