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.

© 2021 j.g. lewis