November

In November, I tremble

Whilst the leaves are quickly turning

Shades of golden honey, apricot and rose.

Crisp evening breezes and flushed cheeks.

In November, I remember

It’s my past haunting me.

Like gossamer ghouls,

Whispering weakly on the wind.

In November, it’s all cinders.

They turn to ash in my hands,

Those rotten memories like

Pomegranates fallen from the branch.

In November, I hurt

My heart is laid bare.

Like spindly trees reaching upwards,

Their leaves now brown and decomposing.

In November, I let go

Of all that is restraining,

And I watch it fall.

Like those first flakes of winter snow.