Grey day, November day. The last holdout
tree has let nearly all its leaves fall.
Its shadow a skeleton.
I keep learning the lessons of seasons:
time’s illusionary stoppage,
my desultory notice not equal
to the moment, my regret
of the obvious. The wrong desire
for one season to go faster,
another slower when all that’s
being asked of me is to take
what is given. I will try to take
this grey day, this November day
into me and turn the dreams
of spring away. “Not yet,” I whisper
like a secret promise that can’t be broken.
-Byron Hoot
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