278 and 279: The Seven Days of November: vi and vii

A piece of very passionate debris,

a-billowing, a banner in the sky,

is in the brimbly branches of a tree,

is in its windy woodlings, way up high.

Was left, I think, by Halloween’s festoon,

was left by one who’d “hauntified” their shed.

A month almost I’ve looked up for the moon,

a month almost I’ve seen decor instead.

And still, sweet Storge does his work again,

and still I won’t admit it right at first.

If it should leave it’d be much cleaner then.

If it should leave, I’d say not best, but worst.

I like that silly something in that tree.

I like it, even though it’s worse for me.

~~~

The memories of this year soon wind down,

we hibernate in each our separate hovel,

and join the decoration of the town,

and take from out the shed the old snow shovel.

Goodbye to leaves on yellow dying trees,

goodbye to this year, all that we remember,

hello to new, liminal memories,

hello to this, the change-guard of December.

November, you have taken all the leaves,

from all those yellow trees that were our cover,

but do so on the new year herald’s eaves,

to dress him in his clear, heraldic color.

Goodbye, my wan and wistful one, November.

Play soft thy carols, rosy, dear December.