November

 

 

November.

It is

Six months later

And our raindrop returns,

On a

Different

Branch this time,

On a willow leaf,

Resting, balanced

In the deep vee

Of the leaf’s centre,

Poised at a daring,

If not dangerous, angle,

As if

About to

Roll and fall,

Roll and fall.

And yet

It does not do so,

But rather remains, steadfast,

Resolute,

Seemingly immovable.

 

Once again

It is magnificent,

Once again a glow,

As it captures

The sharp, more penetrating light

Of winter

And holds it to itself

In a single and acute

Point of light.

And sending it out

From itself to the world

And, unless I am mistaken,

It is aimed accurately

And most decidedly at me,

A fierce thread of connection,

Impossible to miss,

Transfixing to the eye,

Breathtakingly dramatic.

 

No gentle breeze surrounds, this time,

No shimmering blossom;

Everything held

By a frozen stillness.