Photo by Florin Catalin

The Passion of November

Here is a green that is gold,

a sacrifice of leaf to limb.

I kneel at the foot of ash and elm

and my tears seed the earth

with longing.

I look up

into arms outstretched, their palms open

in the midday sun.

Below me,

the fecund matter of the saints

lies in burnished piles.

In the ditches,

I rub shoulders with grasses

and milkweed grown tall.

And into the chill,

vaporous at first, but surer then

as limbs speak:

Woman, behold your son.

       Son, behold your mother.

Here in the absence of green

I take bronze to my breast,

a melancholy but necessary embrace.

This is the passion of November.