Nothing is going to change; not any time soon. Take it slow, take it quiet and slow, let this new early darkness descend upon you. Those bare branches, wet and black, show full moon rising pale and milky in the ink sky, swirling clouds like gauze etched with rings of rainbow colored warnings and distances are spread wide, gaping, yawning, not closable. So be still.
God knows the score, he settled it. He knows the ins and outs of physics, He created it. He gets the loop hole of miracles more poignant and painful and serene and hopeful and buried deeper than we can see, He knows. And we wait with Him on this mad and fruitful plane, we hold His hand and count the days, we reassure Him of our goodness, we are God’s strength; we pray; together.
There are sly moments passing into one another, breathing through the canopy of hopes and dreams, little dappled sunlight moments across the plumpness of a smooth cheek, a shiny eyed peach.
The pitch of frostbitten plum heaven finds it’s colors in our fingers tracing on the falling leaves, we take our time to find the hidden as the grass bends under the zephyr. We catch our breath, our hearts from beating too fast as we sense the work of the detritus, what short work they make of us.
So tonight we’ll have our talk with Hamlet and Ophelia and we’ll wait out the winter coming, soothing ourselves with our cunning, our charming, our spring.
Just be still for now, no yearning. Just let the absence in, let hollow winds to seek out what is lost be found again. We have no end. So November, I forgive you.