November clutters the leaves with cymbals, and my mouth with metal.
It’s the ashes, ashes, all fall down month.
Birds, and old humans who do not move south are more likely to die in November.
Rugs on the floor try to lie on their sides.
The wind tries a new tune.
Cold drafts make even floorboards sigh.
I don’t much mind it.
Not the dark afternooons, not the tryptophan, not the grizzlying of all of us.
Not at all.
I need, you need, we need some days when it is oh so quiet.
Other days will not be so quiet.