now is the time
as november’s dark descends
to learn to love the night
now is the time
to remember all that’s lost
and let it go
to trace the shapes of dreams in constellations
against the cold black sky
night bleeds slowly
into zen brush wash of day
an occasional flash of russet sinking
measure by measure into deepest umber
the edges of the dawn and evening
run together
blotting out all memory of golden light
and colour
trees newly unburdened of their leaves
stretch blushing toward the sun
not settled yet to nakedness
to pallid dormancy
till spring shall clothe them once again
in emerald finery
clouds layered in sheets of grey and shadowed mauve
illusions of swirling softness smothering;
the dance of death and sleep begins
one momentary ray of apricot november sunlight
limns the lengthening shadows
in antique gold, fading to silver
as the ascending moon opens up the door
to all the halls and rooms
and wildernesses to come
