Poetry Sunday: November by Maggie Dietz

Can it really be November already? 

Apparently it can, but where did October go? For that matter, where did the last ten months go?

November. Except for the "fool's gold" of falling leaves, you couldn't prove it by me; it's still mid 80s every day here. 

The November that poet Maggie Dietz describes is that of a more northern clime. Our ideal November.



November


by Maggie Dietz


Show's over, folks. And didn't October do
A bang-up job? Crisp breezes, full-throated cries
Of migrating geese, low-floating coral moon.

Nothing left but fool's gold in the trees.
Did I love it enough, the full-throttle foliage,
While it lasted? Was I dazzled? The bees

Have up and quit their last-ditch flights of forage
And gone to shiver in their winter clusters.
Field mice hit the barns, big squirrels gorge

On busted chestnuts. A sky like hardened plaster
Hovers. The pasty river, its next of kin,
Coughs up reed grass fat as feather dusters.

Even the swarms of kids have given in
To winter's big excuse, boxed-in allure:
TVs ricochet light behind pulled curtains.

The days throw up a closed sign around four.
The hapless customer who'd wanted something
Arrives to find lights out, a bolted door.

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