The leaves of November fail to ignite
Fires of wonder the way
Raging fluorescent orange yellow
Blazes of October always seem to do.
Those still clinging to branches
Of maples or sycamores
Droop browned and ochred
Like brooding men in hats
In old sepia-toned photos
On their way to train stations
in cold rain.
It’s more sad than anything else,
This grasping at what no longer nourishes.
We over-honor the steadfast,
The ascetic stalwarts
Deluded into thinking they
Need to grind years off a life
To earn the ones already lived.
When the temperature drops
And the wind doesn’t just blow
But unleashes itself in demonic howls
You don’t have to clench your jaw,
Huddled alone in a thorny copse.
The game’s up.
It’s ok to just let go.
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