Dear November
I have seen warmer days than you can throw at me. You can’t quite make up your mind. Your idle threat of winter is amusing and has buttoned up all the fields & browned everything with just the hint of a stir-fry. Chasing light is no way for a month to behave, even if October did begrudgingly hand you Halloween on a silver platter with that freak snowstorm, all those little trick-or-treaters dodging the witch hands of felled branches & the thrumming danger of downed power lines. It’s not seemly for a month to lard itover others like this when you are best known for turkey & turnips, for college football and pumpkin pie for god’s sake. I have known you to dress like summer on occasion but really, you don’t have the legs for it. Bring on whispery light, I can take it, though I can’t feel my fingers wrapped around the warm paper coffee cup and stop dangling Jupiter like some engagement ring. The moon, Jupiter and Pleiades cluster as evening falls still, the quiet spills out of your pockets and ends up everywhere: of all the months to harbor silence, you do it with a slight-of-hand, that makes you a magician with a secret doorway into winter, full of abundance & food & gratitude & the Spartan barrenness of tree bark, the sickly absence of leaves, the throaty musk of flaking wood, the slickness of decay, the vanilla-like aroma of mildewy breezes.
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