One last ode to November, while its days trickle down. I found two poems which specifically mention the month, and give us the sense of both the elegance and ending that the fading days evoke. The first, by Joe Pacheco, is more traditional.
November Snow
The first to fall is the first to go.
Earth wears its mantle damp and chill —
Patina of November snow.
Leaves raged with fire just days ago —
Now grays, ash browns, pale yellows tell
The first to fall are the first to go.
Remains of harvest in desolate row
Brace for the final winter kill
Beneath their shroud of November snow.
The rakes now dry, the plow and hoe
Await Spring’s promise to fulfill —
The first to fall are the first to go.
Lit by the sky’s anemic glow
The pines are standing stiff and still,
Defiant of November snow.
In barns of silence wait those who know
What lies beneath the fields they till —
The first to fall are the first to go,
Together with November snow.
We’re nowhere near first snow here; it will be a wet winter instead of a white one, which is likely just fine with the too-tough-to-wear-a-coat crowd I see in this city.
The following is a favorite. Fewer words, boiled down into perfection in the familiar, inimitable style.
who are you, little i
(five or six years old)
peering from some highwindow; at the gold
of november sunset
(and feeling: that if day
has to become night
this is a beautiful way)
—e.e. cummings
The pre-Thanksgiving Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by the effervescent Julie Larios, at The Drift Record. Happy Friday.