November by Hollis Robbins
Losses of this kind should be expected
In the month furthest from regeneration;
The lusting boughs lose ornament, not power.
Though brittle leaves sever their connection,
Mix their leather browns with dirt stained roots
(Callous roots that strangle rival shoots),
Though limbs exposed, old sticks unprotected,
Rough bark will guard against the winter hour.
In dreams I pull up roots and heave astray,
Trim the sails, disavow all treaties,
Search for lee-shore ports where kindness is—
Become the leaves, all ablow, unhindered.
But slowed by cold, horizons icy gray,
Snow blanketed, there will yet be winter.
