November arrives on the heels of All Hallow's Eve, but alas, we miss it.
The perennials in the bed out front reinforce our oblivion,
blithely donning the mask of Mays gone by,
while the oaks out back refuse to play "fall";
their lovely scales, brittle now and scarlet,
cling tenaciously to limbs another year longer.
The skies try to tell us,
but the brilliant blues of chilly noons
pass over eyes downcast,
focused on myriad mundane tasks,
and as dusk steals round earlier and more briskly,
our busy-ness bids us hurry indoors,
avoiding again November's thrall.
We venture south and east,
to the very edge of the sea,
and still October it seems,
breezy, clear and bright.
November mornings make crunchy music at our feet,
and yet we hurry on,
past delicate, nearly denuded vines,
barely clad in brilliant hues,
until, at long last,
we pause to catch our breath
amidst November's bounty,
reflecting on the things that really matter,
and offer thanks...
for November.
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