November
November stomps on like a New Age poet
full of loss
and thrown down beauty.
Dresses darkly,
goes solemn and
bleak, then turns its back
on you.
Walks off the stage.
You're glad it did.
But when it doesn't put on so much,
when it's not acting at all,
but back stage,
unrehearsed,
all the dark stuff
tossed in the corner,
you see through the door
left ajar
the lovely slope of longing.