It’s been snowing with falling temperatures
For two days in November. An embezzler,
This month absconded during one short night,
Betraying our trust: hah, the year’s not quite
Over. It’s too early for snow and wind-chills
We think, but November disagrees and shrill
Weather is here. The end of the year is closer
Than we expect, and daily we’re getting older.
I am November, an aging pensioner
Who’s shocked by the silent and sly escolar
Who slithered into my life taking a huge bite
Out of my future. I sit, contemplating a rewrite
Of stupidities that merit poison pills,
And my time runs short. November, I’ll
Erroneously think, gives me one more chance.
My year’s not over. But the dance,
The span of a lifetime’s match play, nears its conclusion.
All I can do is flinch at mortality’s intrusion.
A recurring biographical leitmotif:
He doesn’t like December. Some thief
Has stolen the other eleven months and
Has replaced them with a cheery band
Of elves, situated since Thanksgiving,
But too full of mischief for one who’s living
On the downside of his allocated days.
He reviews the prior months and his malaise
Lessens. December has a capstone he knows,
And it’s Christmas. He turns his focus and glows,
Seeing familiarities of Spirit he’s enjoyed before.
Love and compassion and the God-within-us to adore.