It isn’t unusual for November to be dark
given that leaves are falling–
ochre- yellow ruminations that speak
of soft details in all living things,
I wonder, what throwing words into the abyss
would bring, whether they would crumble
to the floor or fly?
There is wisdom in the way we try
and fail and try again.
Second stanza – Merril
The way we strain to hear the silver song
of frost formed in moonbeams,
and ponder the wandering of stars—and if
from the depths of canyons or within a
fathomless black hole,
a glimmer of light seeks more,
like words looking for a sentence.
I can only wait for our own star
to flower pink and make a bower
in the sky.
It’s too cold to break bread outside, too bleak
to revel in the idea of sunshine,
it’s one of the many moods of November,
when hills are a profusion of vermillion trees
and unstructured time,
let us be quiet for a while,
drink in nature’s mute energies and become
remembrance, they say, is a terrible crime.
Last stanza – Merril
But what do they know? I remember
seaside summers and picnics on the grass.
I remember hands that grew frail
and eyes that dimmed.
And if November is a dirge for what was,
perhaps it’s a paean for what will be.
There are no shadows without the light,
and flowers like dreams must be tended.
I hear the crackle-crunch of cinnamon-dusted
leaves. They’ve given up their souls,
but squirrels scamper through them
to bury seeds. Some will bloom in spring.
Photo credits: Pinterest
A poem about the many moods of November. I had the pleasure of writing
this one last week with Merril D. Smith 💙