November stirs even
as September opens
like a silver spiral notebook
The first day of high school,
all the kids believe
they'll stick to it.
Straight A's
Cheerleader.
Soccer. Football.
Friday night under the lights.
Homecoming.
Life's a parade,
and all the days
should be early autumn.
New shoes scuffing the first
fallen leaves, gold
as the star on a perfect paper,
Nothing falls faster
than promise. The harvest's in;
the tangible light
that was October fades.
We are growing
older, the pages browning,
the shine rubbed from younger dreams.
Something in me
quickens. The night's
cool; the stars are chips
of bone. When I wish,
it's for November,
the chill of open light,
the reality of a promise
exact and small enough
to keep.