I must say... that is pretty darn amazing poetry. Rushing to read more...


ALL SOULS' DAY

Say November woods.
Say the colors of earth: ocher, sienna,
umber, a hearth where the fire's gone out.
Wind scours trees to their bones. A chevron
of geese cuts a wedge in the sky. Imagine
a hawk the color of winter. On the day
of the dead, he seeks a thermal and soars.
The dead rise, too, will-o-the-wisps
of mist & haze, tobacco smoke from Indian
pipes, the plumes of tall grasses.
They are always with us,
tangible as breath,
fill the interstices of then and now.
In the November woods, cold air
settles like a blanket.
The sky tucks itself in.
Everywhere, the silence
of all the folded wings.
~Barbara Crooker

Oh I love her poetry. It's not familiar to me here in my climate... all that talk of cold and woods and silence and folded wings.
It reminded me to go to my books and find a book that Tam once gave me. Many of you would remember Tam. It's called the Wisconsin Almanac and for November it says...

November

When Air gets light,
The glass falls low,
Batten down tight,
For the winds will blow
~ old sailor's proverb