In come the Saints
Out go the souls
Bare trees,
Cold water.
One month dies
Another is born.
The spinal chill
Of the Scorpion sting,
November is insecticide.
Life that once boldly teemed
Is hunkered down now,
Burrowing into the quiet earth,
Safe from Winter's icy burn.
For those not so fortunate,
It is death without decay.
Windswept in a cold sun,
Some jagged teeth,
An oversized eye socket...
Mark its leathered face.
They died in November,
Like the Great Man.
Taken out by some violent force.
A collision with speed.
November is fire and dead wood.
It is the nesting of interior spaces
Unfolding in curvaceous regrouping
Around buds of heat nestled within,
It is the yellow glare of sunlight,
Angled lower on the horizon,
Streaming through the cool glass
Of closed windows.
The language of the wind
Has changed from a whisper
In the rustling of leaves,
To a howl, as it careens
Around the angles
Of buildings and houses,
And the naked verticality of trees.
The end of the month
Brings the sacrifice of the Great Bird.
Enslaved in concentration camps,
These genetically modified gobblers
Are punished from the day they are born.
They are universally hated for a
Surly appearance and low intelligence
And any abuse to these creatures
Are welcome to the tribe,
As long as they are not allowed to die
Before their rightful day of execution.
Then, on the third Thursday of the month,
These birds are consumed by the tribe,
Grouped in family sets,
Surrounded by Cape Cods and split levels,
With their collective eyes
Mesmerized by the campfire of photonic emissions
Emanating from a window
In a plastic box.
The once ‘bad' and ugly creature
Is greedily devoured
While proclamations of how good
He tasted,
Escape greasy lips between
The intermitant mastication of tasty muscle fibers.
And “God” is roundly thanked for
Having a hand in this,
Despite the confusion
As to exactly where and how this
Assistance took place.
Finally, as the month wanes
The mad foraging frenzy
Of the holiday shopper
Crashes through the quiet dying
Of the seasons of life.
The increasing rumble of exploding hydrocarbons
Signify the transition.
And the phases of the November moon,
Hand their dim torch
To the merry month of December.