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
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