November Moves In
She blows open the door,
slips the cloak from her shoulders—
shades of brown disguising
threads that once shone red, gold.
Hair like frost riming the pond,
body narrow as the garden scarecrow,
she roams hall and parlor,
tosses out autumn’s last vase of mums,
pulls moth-scented afghan from the closet,
peers up the fireplace chimney,
declares it too dangerous to use.
In the study, she flicks on the desk lamp,
takes out her favorite novel, Wuthering
Heights, settles in. She expects a pot
of tea, crisp ginger cookies,
and later a bowl of soup, wants to know
if that over-dressed hussy October
has packed her bags and fled.
Satisfied, she tries to charm us,
promises turkey, dressing and, if we
treat her right, maybe a day of sunshine
before she calls in her dark-clad kin.
Read Connie Green's previous work in Still
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