It’s the end of November,
a mere little ember,
the wonder and magic,
the dark and the tragic.

I come here so often,
the sorrow to soften,
the weather of whether
not helped by a sweater.

I breathe the soft air
and the trees now go bare,
the end of a season,
the heart has a reason
where we don’t know why
we live and we die.

The beginning of peace
and a crease in the fabric of time.
We stir up the pot and like it or not
We are all so damned sweet it’s sublime.

Vicki Woodyard