November-love

Maybe it is your hue of mulled-blue, empathetic-gray

Maybe it is the way you hold summer’s spun gold at bay

Or maybe it’s your brooding wake of being caught between

The hunger of Becoming and the ache of what has been

When we were younger, love, the dreams we dreamed seemed out of reach

But now a season disappears like waves washed to the beach

And what seemed intangible and impossible, oh my

Slips through our outstretched fingers like a raindrop or a sigh

I love you; your sere stance seems to suggest you love me too

Though some insist that you are nothing but sorrow come true

Still, something in the way your wind-song strums the leafless tress

Makes me feel like a quite belong in your strange loneliness

Maybe it is the color of your once much younger eyes

Maybe it is the valor that remains though summer dies

Or maybe it’s the way your slip your whispers through my moan

But something about you, November, feels like coming home

© Janet Martin