Tuesday, November 7, 2017

To Happiness Spent or To 'November'

Your bough of bequeathed bloom bows
Beneath autumn’s auburn arabesque
We empathize;
Our sighs attuned to to-do lists on Nature’s desk
Earth’s loom that laughed with lilies sleeps;
The shuttle weaving day to day
Is threaded with more modest crepe
Of brooding blue,
Cold gold
And gray

November splays a kind reminder
Of the ways
Of days and years
How swift the gift of virgin hour
And how the wow of hurry-scurry
Like the bough bent low with leaf
Succumbs to a Sultan’s edict
Where mighty mite of tock
Is chief

Dry futile tears, my dears,
And tip Now’s flask
Clasped in masked fingertips
Futile to mourn;
The little morn through flue of brittle cornrows
Time’s tempest none can tame
Or claim immunity to its finesse
November fans fond embers
Echoes flame…
And frame 
Spent Happiness

© Janet Martin

 November's 'embers' are hanging on for dear life but oh, their darling days are dearly numbered...

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