November Spring is a poem about hope, a reflection on the conception and viability of dreams, loves, and the generosity of mother earth.
November Spring
Spring begins in November, he said, kneeling a hair's width
from the flowerbed in the allotment, yards from the intersection
where so many crashes maim and kill /
Right before the days get short enough to hibernate / which I
will, someday, when I get out of that filthy factory.
In November, time draws you into a deep sleep beneath the earth,
when the frosty dew turns bleak fields into starry skies.
You've got a sky above and below then, in November, I mean, he
said, wiping his nose with his soil-covered sleeve.
The earth hides strings of wombs to home seeds if you're looking
for one. She's an idealist, you know, good old mother earth,
always sure that each seedling will root and shoot up, up, up
toward the sun.
Her love's indiscriminate, you know, she doesn't care if you're
a poisonous fungus or an opulent orchid. In November, she
conceives, around the time we get depressed about the lack of
sunlight and start drinking too much whiskey, mourning the
falling leaves.
I guess she can feel the rumbling restlessness of buds, foresees
spring's bursts. In November, she anticipates February coaxing
daring daffodils, he said,
closing the door of his shed, emerging minutes later, suited up
for work. On the overpass, the allotment faded into November,
beneath us / cars, above us / invisible stars.
Leave a Reply