THIS NOVEMBER

Photo by Kathryn Kleekamp

Last night I read a Mary Oliver poem and today can viscerally feel the lingering impact of her consideration of what a soul is. As a longtime non-fiction writer, I am awed by what poets accomplish with exactly the same tools in my arsenal: words, punctuation, and a blank page. Occasionally I step outside proven proficiencies to write a poem. My objective is usually to simply say something of isolated importance or particular complexity. Sometimes it just feels good to play with the rhythm, descriptive words and imagery that distinguish poems. Maybe it’s the same impulse that leads birds to sing.

Out for a walk one November day in 2003, I was amazed to see crocuses blooming. In fact I found evidence of all four seasons. It intrigued me because November has always seemed to stand alone: not winter, not fall, not summer or spring. The following poem was an attempt to share that observation.

This November

spring’s lavender flowers bloom
among dead brown leaves below
green leaves holding to a willow branch
like old friends reluctant to part.

Frosty mornings become balmy days
become clear, cold, cobalt nights
crowded with stars and a restless moon
that moves among them with the solitary grace
of a lone swan in search of her mate.

November’s crisp air,
carries earthy odors, rough and worn,
good and used, like old hands.

At day’s end its black and coral skies

sprawl unrestrained and joyous,
like the work of a child
left alone in an art room.

November the loner, the balladeer
of rich songs colored with promise
and tainted with regret,
chronicler of the year's life
and death, hope and sorrow,
loss and gain;

these are November’s gifts

for those who are
inspired and healed
by change. 



Photo by Christie Lowrance