The Dark Socket of the Year

—after Marge Piercy

I long for November

when the forced cheer-

fulness of fall ends, and

proper reverence for darkness begins.

It twists – 

a gathering of days swirling

like a bony skirt around

the trunk of night.

Lean into the turn.  

Press your face against  

the darkening, feel its 

cold breath skim your cheek.

Hear it whisper your name,  

inviting you to linger 

in its inky embrace.

Rest here awhile.

Steep in the chill light of 

the receding sun. 

Stretch with the lengthening

shadows of bare-branched trees.

Wait.

There is poetry in the pause.

Even the moon grows bloody and dim.

It, too, needs respite from the shine.