243 and 244: The Seven Days of November: ii and iii

November night: the kind they have in books,

when venturing upon the countryside.

When lucid Cold, so soft, so quiet, looks,

but does not open up her arms too wide.

The leaves are here to keep you company,

some warm companions in this open air,

the silent watchers whose short tenancy

will end as soon as November is bare.

I had a friend like that, who lingered just

a season—even less—my sophomore year.

For him I cherish leaves more than I must.

He never knew how much I held him dear.

But they can’t send the message. Even so,

I find I feel much better if they know.

~~~

My roommate’s gotten very close this week,

and I can’t blame him, for we share a bane:

a burden that makes our old bones quite weak,

and drives us indescribably insane.

I wonder if he would complain as much

as I do. Would he labor to detail

the miseries that are our mire as such—

the grief against which all our efforts fail?

I’ve said it once that I am my cat’s bed;

but no more is it something to endure.

We both have something now to share in dread:

it’s gotten cold, and only getting more.

I’ve said it, and I’ll say it evermore:

of all God’s work, the ice I most deplore.