There is in November, a December way of looking at things.
Cold toes in old shoes. Drunken birds, shrill red berries.
Yes . . . This is the place . . . And these are your big round spectacles.
The garden door is overgrown. There is rust on the hinges.
In the creak of the wind on the spring of the latch is the hand of a ghost.
Is it hard to imagine someone dear waiting on the other side?
A world of departed friends and lovers, a mother, a father, a child?
Faith in the strength of their mellow white bones?
November 16, 2019
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Aging, Calendars, December, Diaries, Journals, Memory, November, Poems, Poetry
William Michaelian 