Song of November

Let me sing a song of November

the chilly dream that Winter wakes

October's leafy pageant

the steely wind shakes

from the clattering sky

littering the brown field

when black birds solemnly fly.

The pastel flowers have floated down September's streams like prayer flags flying 

The triumphant cry of the year!

Against the western winds laying down their fair share of grief

before Winter steals the color of this dream/

Dusty pink petals swirl and rise never to fall or die.

Bronze bells clang harmony in the distance as if to amuse me

What angel hovers there?

What death dance keeps me turning 

What new melody am I learning?

Song of November arises in my mind

echoing ancient battles of yellows and greens

of Summer's grip and before it Spring’s.

I am the wind to tousle your hair

I am fire orange and billowing

I am water

I am the moon

I am the dream when the dreamer wakes

You cannot see me/cannot hear me.

I am the stone and soil

you kick me underfoot.

You never knew me/

never held me at all.

Now alone you sing my song

and stand baffled by its sombre chords

though the words speak clearly

of this day and filter the sand into the hourglass.

Mountains rise and mountains fall

your mind gathers focus then crumbles to a stall

gazing into the mirror the mirror cannot lie

You see your original face without darkness

I am not lying.

Morning comes and morning goes as the broken leaves into the cold torrent's flow

you reach outside/feel the stinging breeze.

The wind tousles back your autumn hair

I come rushing into the air

you catch me in one powerful try

As I tumble into the corner of your eye.

Pale moon hides in her cloudy bed

and fire steals the night

My stream wends in fright an uneven way---

into the neverending poem at the heart of this day!

"All passes away yet God smiles and waves a banner of serenity---

Lord, You hold all of the cards we play

and yet I would beg you to play this hand in another way."