Collar upturned, scarf scratching

against the skin, eyes tearing as furious winds

find their way, we protect ourselves

from the intermittently indifferent month

of November. As only we can.

Atmosphere duly moistened

by pent up frustration in joys not found,

unfostered friendships, and decline

in the value of our self-worth,

deceit flows freely in these darker hours.

Our hardened hearts impervious

to even favoured words, we can hardly

hear ourselves speak, and better we not.

Each question delivered during these days

cannot summon an answer; even decisions

arrived at in November will wait.

December, with its warmer spirit and

delicate snow is then a softer month

for broken promises or shattered hearts.

We count not the days, but tolerate

this month of indecision, our time instead

sorting out emotions, impositions,

and lack of interest.

How does it feel from the inside?

The bitter cold slams against our silhouette,

while souls cry out for attention, admonition,

gentle hands or comfortable shoulder.

Even young bones creak loudly against

this change of season.

Even old souls forever remember

the intolerable month of November.

© 2017 j.g. lewis