Yard Sale of Thoughts

Blood Loss Month

In November, 
bent limbs shiver,
itch of red eye
as  a cataract of clouds 
clump together.

Poor November
stooped and withered,
crooked fingers point and pry:
arrows wild in gusty weather.

For soon the year will collapse,
fold its hands across its lap,
wheeze and rattle its last.

In the blood loss month, 
pick hellebore 
for the fresh-dug grave;
herald the annals of the past.

Dread November,
the ultimate outcast.
We hibernate our hearts,
conceal all flesh,
detach.

Yet weep not for 
chrysanthemum,
pink from exsanguination;
grief makes loving memories
numb,

as what we lose
will decompose;
old friendships 
fodder for new hope.

Through frosty sorrow,
we suffer, but outlast.