November Poem
 
His fingers curled around the fag end
of the year’s length, old November slinks in
to take his place among the calendars,
and the diaries and dates.
Like a wet-nosed, muddy-pawed tom
that has enjoyed the better part of night
in disreputable places. Except of course
for the undeniable fact
that this is a month of ponderings.
 
Some people stay indoors, foolishly
believing they can keep November out.
Others are smarter. In my house
it is my job to turn the clock
forward. It is my job to usher in
a sense of spring and wellbeing.
And brush away the blues, which I do.
Yes, I do my job very well, thank you.
 
I sweep. I mop. I sing. I gather it all in
to my heart, condensing and crushing
the whole damn month. Mashing it into
a gravity defying molecule of indescribable weight.
I string it and wear it around my neck,
like a locket with a rare and priceless gem.

Shikhandin


If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Shikhandin would be pleased to hear them