When November Comes
It doesn’t matter what day it is
and no one seems to care
which way the wind blows.
The only thing that seems to matter
is November will arrive without fanfare,
and now everything can get on with dying.
The day might be bright but it will be short;
city parks will be littered with leaves
that never completely dry.
Street walkers and their dogs
will be hard to recognize
once November has taken hold.
Towering trees become dancing skeletons
reaching out for a partner in the sky.
Peering through their branches
at just the right time,
Venus or the Moon or the Sun
can be spotted, pretending
to be ornaments dangling.
october two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
Love this one!!
Thanks, Lola. Originally wrote this one a year ago, so glad you enjoyed. jw
a lovely poem.. like the description of towering trees as dancing skeletons..
thank you, november is special to me, born on the 13th many moons ago 🙂
oh! fine:) Happy Birthday in advance:)
Now everything can get on with dying. That’s lovely.
Thank you, Mimsy. 🙂
That is so true: It is hard to recognize people and dog when both species are bundled up or when we’re no longer sauntering in the park but brisk-walking, focused on getting from A to B instead! Thank you for the insight!
Thanks for commenting on this poem, Su ;`)
♥️ this! I like the day might be bright but it will be short🦋✨️