The last day of the month. A good day to go off subject, and do something totally different – poetry.
Winter arrives in upstate New York three weeks before the calendar denotes it. The trees are stripped in November, the brown leaves run away, we commute to and from work in the dark. The weather can be rather dramatic; the wind will turn rain to snow in a matter of minutes, and the gray limbs wave crazily. Eventually, the transition occurs, and we have snow on the ground.
November’s New Act
The snow comes on cue,
after the trees perform their scene and drop their leaves.
The stage is now set with steel-gray limbs waving in the cold wind,
a carpet of dull brown skittering across the floor.
These branches once held a green tapestry against the blue sky,
and then infused that cape with bright red, orange and yellow,
in a short-lived but brilliant speech to the senses.
But the warm drama and the colorful shouting
is frozen out by the next Act,
covered by a white color slowly falling from the far-reaching gray rafters:
a quiet cold that carries none of the argument
that can come in the noise of a pelting rain.
We pull out our heavy coats and move away from the scene,
huddle in the warm lobby in front of our fireplace,
knowing that the pace of our play has changed.