poem

 November Leaves

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.  

11/15/21