November came in like a broken heart, with yesterday lying fallow on the ground, the bones of winter peeking through the thinning skin of the world.
The birds that paint color on summer skies have all flown, hoping as they went that the world will see another spring, but for now, the pumpkins await the killing frost, the sad moon begins it’s decline.
We hope the spoils of the harvest are worth the turning of the soil, slice-dividing the worm in the moist embrace of dirt, as we unstick the final plow blade, drag the last tractor from the mud and creep out of autumn, blue with cold.
Dead leaves skitter away toward December like desiccated spiders migrating west.
The month most reminiscent of aging is the eleventh one, like the same hour, a motion to close, to dismiss the third of a quartet of phases in a hardscrabble life when the earth begins to obsess over it’s fading tomorrows.
The sun gets a little bit shorter each day