November foretells of disappearances;
in a seeming dissolution of animation,
we are unleafed,
though we will predict again,
held fast in memory,
that it will not be permanent.
Women vanish all the time, of course,
sieved from history, and often
I would hardly know, myself,
that I existed if it were not for the pain
that shame has shaped
in the strata of rock,
formed in layers of weight upon my chest.
And I have dreamt of it -
the burden of it,
how desensitised I became,
how now I would not let my boulder go,
built, as it was, for me.
November promises darkening
whilst the living respond to light -
attracted or repelled by it.
I am riddled with self-doubt,
raised on the slow release of winter,
the assembly of grief
against the deconstruction of life,
here, I am medicated for sadness.
We search for hope, we try to find
signs around us to escape
our metamorphosis into casualties
of despair, and it is why, perhaps,
there are so few words that compare
to the spirit of it - because it does not lie
in mere expectation, but
there are so many terms for portents;
we have always wanted to see
the future everywhere.
Image is from wikimedia commons: https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Dülmen,_Leuste,_Bäume_im_Nebel_--_2020_--_5042_(bw).jpg