November, why?
Why do more of my friends and family die
when you show up?
 
Darker each day, you plod towards Solstice
bringing cold, rain, slippery roads,
cancelled flights, looming Christmas,
the realization that once again I'm not going to make
those thoughtful, lovely gifts dreamed of in July.
 
At least you're short, though February has you beat;
few as they are, its days get longer.
 
Just when I want to hibernate,
just when the mice move back inside
you shake out a list of things
to be put off no longer:
winter tires, Christmas baking,
the abominable annual seasonal letter.
 
November, get a grip. Take a trip.
Go south for a bit, in a plane or a van,
somewhere there’s a ceiling fan.
Dive into a pool. Get a tan.
Come home late from dancing.


© by Linda Crosfield.
Used with the author’s permission.