November

 This is a yearly rumination,
A moment of breathless suspension,
Hanging on a change in season.

Nothing is forgiven in November.
Nothing is forgotten, when the sunlight
Shines unhindered through the barren hilltops.

Between remembrance of the past,
And future possibility,
Lies a smug and tranquil inner silence.
All is at once made clear:
At the center lies an endless sadness,
And Merlin – rising at the dying of the year –
Sees his shadow in the autumn sunshine,
And knowing it for what it is, accepts it.

I will throw-off the shelter you offer.
I will drink the autumn’s bitter purity,
Finding some solace in the still, cold air.

This is the only season of reflection,
The yearly feast of abjuration,
A litany of resignation.

1978