Rebecca at Sloth Reads is hosting Poetry Friday today
November is almost over, and she has drained every bit of color from our landscape. The cornfields look just as brown and weary as the pastures, even the sky is dull and dreary on most days. Farm chores begin and end in weak sunlight, and the days seem to drag. For some reason, I find November and March the hardest months; November signals the onset and real winter and the girding up the body and soul to get through it, and by March (such a long month!) one feels stretched to the point of breaking. It’s the early crocuses and snowdrops that keep one going – Spring close enough to begin imagining warm sunshine again.
When I read this poem on The Writer’s Almanac the other day, I was reminded of the glorious Fall we’d had, and what it felt like to traipse up and down the pastures with my sheep and dogs in tow. I did not dance a reel, of course, but I did pause often to delight in the golds and reds and russets. Now that it’s November, I’m so glad that I did…
Reel
by Barbara Crooker
Maybe night is about to come calling, but right now the sun is still high in the sky. It’s half-past October, the woods are on fire, blue skies stretch all the way to heaven. Of course, we know winter is coming, its thin winding sheets and its hard narrow bed. But right now, the season’s fermented to fullness, so slip into something light, like your skeleton; while these old bones are still working, my darling,
let’s dance.