November

November is here:
she breathes her icy breath
on the bark of trees
makes their leaves fall-
like the hair of grieving men.
Makes their bones grow brittle
they shake in the wind-- half asleep.
She sets the stage for winter.
Prepares us to be slapped
by his cold, open fist.
It's the longest time
until things will grow again.
For now,
everything dies.