This and every November [#4 Gary Mc]

This and every November

         for Gary

Thoughts flew off to somewhere in September. Lost themselves in the ebbing warmth of spent embers. I could not travel to find them. Rooted in the memories of other autumns I awaited leaf-change and the turn of directions cold winds would bring. I missed them until I forgot that once they were mine. I felt naked like a tree without leaves. And like a dead snag holding fast to the earth I was reluctant to bid them farewell. I faded before the flow of forever.

Yet thoughts fled none-the-less like the days we worked side by side so aware of the distance, the necessary chasm that kept us sane and apart. My part in that forest-fire I try to forgive, no blame placed on you. Still the same, October followed and brought pumpkins and apples and frost, yet no harvest from fields never planted. Granted they had stayed snow-covered till June, mud-slick in July, gasping for breath come hot August. Now the winds come from the east, backed up by a northern bone chill; branch and twig and the verdant cockscombs of summer look more like old rotting snags.

I could leave, but where would my thoughts find a home without me to return to? Yes, those, the ones that sneak back and perch in my thinning hair, this and every November.

© Kåre Enga

[168.190] #4 November 2, 2011.

Note to self, previous version:
Thoughts flew off to somewhere in September. Lost in the ebbing warmth of spent embers. I could not travel to find them. Rooted in the memories of other autumns I awaited leaf-change and the cool change of directions cold winds bring. I missed them until I forgot that once they were mine. I felt naked like a tree without leaves and like a dead snag holding fast to the earth I was reluctant to bid them farewell. I faded, too alliterative with forever. But they went none-the-less like the days we worked side by side so aware of the distance, the necessary chasm that kept us apart. My part in that forest-fire I try to forgive, no blame placed on you. Still the same, October followed and brought pumpkins and apples and frost, yet no harvest from fields never planted. Granted they stayed snow-covered till June, mud-slick in July, gasping for breath come hot August. Now the winds come from the east, backed up by the north bone chill, branch and twig and the verdant cockscombs of summer looking more like the snags. I could leave, but where would my thoughts find a home without me. The ones that sneak back and perch in my thinning hair, this and every November.