An Invitation from the First Day of November
I am November, the crossover
into winter. The start of months
that I will drag on slow as clay.
Slow as a long curve. Slower
than ditchwater with scum
shivering on top.
Winter, slow as lamented loss.
Winter, when grief slows time.
Slow, slow as damp plaster’s chill,
or as vacant as a stare. And I will
pull you into the slowness
of sea grass, and the coldness
of a slow dying star. Come into
winter, and we’ll crossover. Slow.
What words need saying to a needle
that your foot finds in a haystack.