One More November

november’s storms keep my travels safe indoors the wind and snow prosper the tumult is a sad caricature of change gusts play tag with ill-prepared complaining cars pedestrians believe that even three legs aren’t enough birds clench the branches patient and unblinking ruffled only in the feather of their migrating dreams the whole world slides the palette of my summer colours bleach to white and the knife cold whispers down my spine windows only offer partial refuge from the nameless anger blasting past edmund fitzgerald felt november’s curse when the beasts of weather ploughed into the lake and the best that we could do was left broken and betrayed we wallow in slow motion sliding to the gaping mouth of next month’s frigid grip november stings all splotched with snow november is the fanged and howling hunter scouting for the wolf-pack winter lurking near november is not quite the corpse but the dying patient much confused with the stealth of marching winds we are swept by short dismantled days and longer nights where did all the winged distractions of our summer go now only all the evergreens are clothed in grace november is the bleeding wound a cracked conceit of angry words and whorls with shivs of icicles and sinking breath the cold is needle-like - injected anaethestic numbing all the toes and fingertips with illusions of sterility while the teasing shrinking sun with troubled light rolls toward december’s promised tipping point