Like discarded pages
from the book
of autumn, the leaves
come trembling down.
Today is the first truly Novemberish day: wet and wild.
The leaves are surrendering, not just the odd individual flutter
but whole regiments of them, felled by the great gusts of wind.
All of that October gold transmogrified
into sodden piles of brown muck.
I drive gingerly through the forest
that leads to my daughter's school.
Tires slip; windshield wipers scrape.
I take out porridge, still warm, for the chickens
because I feel ridiculously guilty about the discomforts
of their outdoor living space.
There is a great temptation to just go back to bed.
Cheers for hissing radiators, thick duvets
and the cappuccino that my husband
(still in his thick bathrobe)
is making for me right now.
Open your arms
to the dying colors,
to the fragile
Deep in the heart
of buried acorns,
nothing is lost.
(italicized words belong to Linda Pastan,
from Queen of a Rainy Country;
recommended reading for November.)