The night of frights and ghosts and ghouls
and witches is over. It is November and I
hear, “Whenever I find myself growing grim
about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly
November in my soul; whenever I find myself
involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses,
and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet;
and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper
hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle
to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street,
and methodically knocking people’s hats off — then,
I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.
This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical
flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I take quietly to the ship. “
The leaves have nearly all fallen except the oak and birch,
the rust colored, the yellow ones clinging in a desperation
to branches as if they fear falling down, do not trust
the resurrection of spring, think their refusal changes things,
their rustling like dry kindle waiting for a flame.
Now the days are shorter and nights longer and dreams
more numerous and more elusive with more time to come
and to go, to put themselves into my heart and soul,
to haunt my waking with signs and wonders that feeds the fire,
that makes it burn hotter and draws me closer
dancing naked in November nights.
November is the month of markings, of scars turning
into art, of the smallest spider web holding heavy stories
of love and intrigue and loss and longing and all of these
fulfilled exquisitely. “Call me Ishmael.”
-Byron Hoot
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