November, by Oggie Williams
What is it about November that I dislike so much?
The flat, gray light,
the sun gazing blankly,
like a tired, unfriendly stranger in an airport.
The raw, relentless wind,
the barren branches,
the brownness of the fallen leaves,
sometimes tumbling, sometimes huddled against stone walls.
Summer things are gone,
replaced with ….. nothing.
November is a lost month,
neither autumn nor winter.
A brutal, chapped, reddened month,
a month for sharpening knives, swearing oaths,
and hanging carcasses in trees to cool.
Perhaps November is calling some part of me
that I keep locked inside the house
in a cage, down in the basement.
Come out! Come out and play!
November is calling!
This is your special time!
I want to understand.
But I don’t.
Oggie Williams, ChIME, 2014