november

1. It's November:
a warm month
in the afternoon at least
when the sun slants through brown leaves
Its touch turns us to gold:
the patchy grass, the wide wood slats of the fence
standing and rotting,
the weft weaving through leafshadow stripes.


2. Autumn light touches down like Midas—
the old wood slats of the backyard fence
turn gold;
we are enclosed in God's jewelry box:
the sky above us turquoise, silver veined,
the ground beneath us goldpatched,
glittering:
emerald and tourmaline and topaz

3. It's November:
the neighbor's vine
climbs like a curious child
to peer down the brown slats
of the fence
curls dangling down
Our ivy grows green hands to it:
hello,
little visitor,
hello

4. I want to write a poem about November, but
I hate it:
the dead gray sky,
the cold that curls uncoziness around me
like a blanket’s evil twin,
the long months till light.