In early November
This old place is so alive.
I recall long ago another
November alchemy,
When I drove into the slumbering
Meadows flowing from the Hector Backbone
Late, on a night searching for my
Beating heart,
And now I’m understanding
What I never knew
In the molecules of every day,
Home from the vast night skies of the forest
It is everywhere, in a thousand thousand acres,
This pulse and breathing, into the
Necessary interstitial pausing.
Squirrels hide sustenance under
The sheets on a guest room bed in this old place—
They have their ways
And critters in the walls scamper busy, tho
No bird nest builders in the cornices
Now this season come.
The garden sleeping,
Bulbed, and rooted deep and
When I pause I feel our breathing
We are earthing, fragile passages of time and
Mine in time as well,
Japanese maple finally drifting leaves red and
Verdant to the ground
And still, you see, while all not quite into the deep,
I verge on winter.
