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

Flowers,

Falters,

Disappears

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

Slips

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...