Song of November







Teased by leaves of impossible hue,

November coaxes her song, late in coming

but pure in its lyric of white death.

She sings, crouched in waiting on hollow, haunted haunches

squeezing out what remains of flourishing days.

Confidently, she trades them for the unknown future

where day and night swap places.

Grey becomes the new day,

greyer still the night that swallows up

scented Summer’s boasting, silken Fall’s lust for Spring.

Stop, she says.

Stop to hear this song about nothing,

these words that have sewn up sown seeds,

entombing with wordless serenade the last vestiges of living

and, instead, insistently hums her song,

her late and last and lingering notes;

notes only overshadowed by the noisy whines

of Spring’s new calling.

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