November

November, the month of deepening dark,
The solstitian turn still far  out of sight,
The sunshine thinning, almost brittle light,
The leaves that were green now carpeting ground 

Perfected setting for the gems of grief
That both gloom and glow with the memory
Of all that was lost, the pleasure and cost,
Enduring puzzle that it came to be

November, that’s portent of discontent,
Yet with its own strange beauty and appeal,
Resolved in the flesh, nerve, eye and bone
As if we were kin sediment of star

An instant of enduring against night
A traveling flash that’s soon to be past