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Toward November

by Mary Lambert
The graceful march into November
has come this year as it was ordained,
moment by moment,
One still shot after another.

Hoarfrost. A sure sign--and still,
the brilliance.
Even the birds pause.

Another day, hour, minute
and it will be gone,
only the matte of November
remaining.

But for now, this slow march.
This metronome of movements into November ...
a clarity of change through slowness,
one leaf at a time.

So momentary, so beautiful. so ...
Precipitous
and pregnant with something
else.

Frightening in a sense. Like life that seeps away,
second by second,
gone without our knowing,
while we waltz in brilliance and beauty,
our eye on the sun.

And then one day realize
the heartbeat is missing,
the fullness gone and only
the russet skeleton remains.



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