A November Conversation

"Leafless tree, gray and bare as your mood, you arms thin and frail,

somehow you manage a majestic stance in your loft, as you extend a

crooked limb to warn me of advancing snows.

And with a gust of wind, four limbs, a palm, brush across what seems

to be an ear.

Do you hear the crackle of the upcoming ice or the moaning of a pack

of wolves along a distant timber trail?

You hold no shelter now for your winged friends. Does this make you lonely?

No squirrel now to tickle your back, that scratch that makes you laugh

and shakes your leaves without a single breeze.

And that melody you sing, with your gold coin leaves as they shimmer

from Autumn's breeze, is silent now.

Soon I will see your coat, white, with sleeves of ice.

And I, shivering in the sleet, with skins to keep me warm, will wonder

as you do not make a sound

with your bare feet on the ground.

We speak of these November things, you and I, as each year

rolls around.

You learn of my attention to your roll upon this earth.

And I learn, of all the seasons,

November breeds your worth.