In the deep fall don’t you imagine the leaves think how comfortable it will be to touch the earth instead of the nothingness of air and the endless freshets of wind? And don’t you think the trees themselves, especially those with mossy, warm caves, begin to think of the birds that will come – six, a dozen – to sleep inside their bodies? And don’t you hear the goldenrod whispering goodbye, the everlasting being crowned with the first tuffets of snow? The pond vanishes, and the white field over which the fox runs so quickly brings out its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its bellows. And at evening especially, the piled firewood shifts a little, longing to be on its way.
It is November And all the leaves face my way Overlapping tussocks of grass Like long forgotten hills Dwelling in the overhang of fall
It is November Orange ribbons hand in tatters Patched up yellow cloaks are draped And whisking in the wind Then drifting to the earth And becoming winters pillow
It is November And there stands a lonely tower Base adorned with red bushes Flags no longer flying Crouched and crippled by the frost
It is November My feet bear down on acorns A thousand fold All left and forgotten Even to the squirrels Just a layer ‘neath my feet
It is November The solitary pines stand solid Near the ivy covered wall Their boughs raise and hail the heavens And their needles fall As the autumn wind dances a mournful dance
It is November Bare branches rake the cloudy skies And scratch out their heartfelt pleas Against cold glass windows Seeking what they have lost and will not find
It is November An old gate stands ajar Beckoning to no one Standing solidly open Despite the cruel fall wind
It is November Trees make colored circles A fading gold on fading green A fireworks display Now falling to the ground
It is November Cold air fills my body Cruel wind tosses my hair I seek a shelter from autumn My door is open Now I am home
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