End of November

The End of November

 Tori Winslow

I write this in an effort to get

outside my mind.

Even as my thoughts flow from birth to life

my hand seizes up

with the arthritic cold

of November.

Winds from the canyon warn me of

the storm,

though, I knew it was coming.

The mountains at the far side of the valley

slouch like old women

with shawls of shadowy clouds

from above.

It is growing later, darker,

(The streetlights have flickered on

while my eyes were glued to this page)

but I do not feel it is time to leave.

The hill is deserted.

Young laughter

and rustling leaves

echo among the dead-bark trees.

And I sit here alone,

a flag overhead crackling like

fire in the wind before it blows out.

The leaves running down the hill like children…

All I realize is the coming storm.

The sky that was so friendly this morning,

is scowling down upon me.

The gray that drenches the mountains

has seeped into the valley

and stained its old carpet.

Even the burning yellow leaves

(which I thought were unconquerable)

are reduced to a broken brown

and torn down

from the branches

of dead-bark trees.

My fingers grow numb.

My thoughts grow lame.

Dong–

the bell tower reminds me of its

rigid hands.

It tells me seven times

to remember…

in cold December.

I feel then it is time to leave,

but I forget.

So I run down the hill with the rest.