November

November Dawn, Saint-Lazare, Québec. Photo by Catherine Chandler

November

November is a season all its own —

a month of saints and souls and soldiers. Snow

will soon white-out a fallacy of brown.

It is a month of waiting, lying low.

November is a season all its own —

a time for turning back the clock as though

it’s useless to pretend. A dressing-down.

Thin ice entices me to touch and go.

November, remnant of the year, is here

in dazzling dawns that dissipate to grey;

here in the tilting asymmetric branch

and sharp note of a towering white pine where

the pik and churlee of a purple finch

can either break a heart or make a day. 

(by Catherine Chandler. First published in Measure, Volume VIII, Issue 1, 2013)