First Snow

 

November's first snow

is soft as warm Pandesal.

Such a sight makes the thorns sleep

as if they had died.

The neighbor's young dog

wears a pink coat and throws her toy

in the flake-filled air. She is a saint

sent to remind me of rivers.

I was in love once, many times.

Seasons arrive with suitcases

holding one beautiful thing and eleven goodbyes.

I am a vase, falling. The earth receives it all. 

Dear November

 

Dear November,

It's mad easy to become lost.

You are so cold and distant, part of me is begging,

the rest of me a raised fist, cocked.

 

Everything inside me is in rivulets down a window

and it's moving,

dear November,

like a scared hare in the stalky brown fields. 

Dear November,

I think I married you once, had your child,

or came to your funeral every year wearing heartbroken black.

I was your dove, dear November,

and your crow.

Dear November,

I need to know that you remember me beautiful,

even if I turned dry as a page,

stale as a bowl of potpourri in a haunted house.

I am crying now, dear November

and December's smile mocks us both,

Cher Novembre,

mon triste bien-aime.*

________

*Dear November, my sad beloved

for Dverse Poetics for the love of letters.