The day after Thanksgiving. The weather has warmed so that going outside is comfortable again, though the paths and roads are slick. All day yesterday, we could hear the snow sliding off the roof. We sat and ate turkey and pie and talked about the sorrows that have come into our community lately—too soon in winter for so much inexplicable pain.
It’s hard to write about, so here’s a poem.
The way “November”
settles in the mouth:
the dark “n” and “v”, the chilly
“b” and “r”, the hum of “m”
at the heart. The name of the month
rumbles through our days,
dragging the shadowed season
with it. Snow falls and packs
beneath our feet. The moon hangs
half-hearted in the dark afternoon
sky; the night a tunnel we
plunge into with hope
that when daylight comes,
we all wake from darkness
to morning, rich with coffee,
the air tart with cut oranges,
with deep umber light
spreading to pink in the sky.
Mattie's Pillow 