November falls asleep

November falls asleep

Outside, a world of grey...
no one there to share the bravery
of weakness, only those few ragged leaves
that fight the wind before
they resurrect, low flying
in their feeble lust to seek
a winter niche within the wood.

It is a time to celebrate regret,
to think of tears that wet the cheek
in spring, and dried in summer's heat—
of grief postponed until the seasons sighed
and left their challenge incomplete.
It's time to set out thoughts
and make them work, not just drift
into another winter unredeemed.
The leaves do that.

Desire forsakes itself.
There is too much sterility
to cold, forboding ground
that may not whisper of the spring...
too much to leave behind,
abandoning the prize of breath,
of dream,
of warm creative light that bursts out
from compassion's womb.

It takes departure
from a foetal berm,
impetuous to join the sojourners
who dare approach the city
where the pilgrims stay. It is there
around the sacrament of peace
they break the bread of unity
and drink the wine of love.

Beyond the gate are monstrous things
I have not known before,
and from the core of me
is sung the antiphon,
Thanks be to God!
~