November Keep
November is a thin needle under the shortest rib,
often it slips past your moat, your portcullis,
your castle walls unnoticed.
The fire in your kitchen splutters
and the wood is too wet to rekindle it.
Only then do you look through a spy glass
from your highest tower
see the wraiths churning in the sparse woods,
see the dervish dance of demented bones
resurrected from last year.
Chill November is here
and the guards are asleep.
The dark winter of your content
needs a new puffer jacket.
Call for the seamstress of your soul,
call for the mitten maidens.
Gather up the woolens
for all the wind soaked feet
that have to march on.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2021
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment