Waking

Fog's fingers
pull curtains of mist
over morning.
Sleep-shuttered eyes open,
awaiting a sliver
of sunlight.

Harvest

November gray. Overnight, it seems, strong winds tore golden brown leaves from every tree. Skeletal limbs reach skyward even as shadowy winter clouds hang lower and lower. The river waters darken, growing colder, the surface buffeted by a brisk breeze.

More than any other month, November holds sadness. It is dying, dead, the send of summer and the autumn equinox, yet not quite to gentleness of December and the first crystaline snow of the season. Limbo. November is limbo, purgatory.

As November recedes, though, a bountiful harvest is laid before us. Red potatoes and Yukon golds, root vegetables, squash and pumpkins, the last gigantic cabbages, the last green tomatoes, an array of crisp red apples grace our tables even as we grace family with that American celebration called Thanksgiving.

Perhaps November's mission is to create a space to mourn the loss of lushness, then nourish us back to contentment as we gather family around a table and celebrate the gift of each other.