By B. Belle-Isle, 2007
November turns her pale face my way
and shakes her dusty mane of brown and gold.
She seems to come apart before my eyes.
Tattered leaves go whirling to the ground.
They gather in corners of my yard to talk about their experience.
November is smaller, more spare, for her effort.
Time to get naked, she says.
Time for these trees to get naked.
No more pirouettes in the Summer Sunshine for these guys.
I am going to shake their wooden bones.
I am going to make them quake in my wind.
The fun, she says, is over.
She looks thin, but mean.
There is Thanksgiving, I say.
There is the gathering around the table,
the remembrance of blessings.
There is hot coffee and pumpkin pie.
There are a few days off work for which I am always grateful.
There is the possibility of first snow on the peaks of the mountains.
November shakes her head at me.
You left-over Halloween witch, she says.
You are hitting the candy corn way too hard.
Get with the program. Get grim.
You are behind the times.
It is from my small, brave heart that time spins out, I say.
It is the happiness and gratitude of my heart that shapes my world.
I smile in your wind, November, and laugh when you tangle my hair.
I enjoy pulling on my old, red sweater.
It is a warm meeting with an old friend.
I am even grateful for you, November.
I welcome you home once again.