November Dance

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You wouldn’t say dance when you think of this month. Maybe, with a little effort, you could name the dance of rusty leaves.

I’ve even written a short poem about their fallen beauty…

To see the way November paints

You should look down

A humble artist this month is

He takes the leaves and makes a gown.

But a dance from the world of people, the true kind of dance, where minds take bows and souls dare to reach, the energy dynamic of thoughts swirling up in the air until their authors bump into each other, accidentally, in the street, this type of dance is a rare beast. It comes at you like heavy rain, well, it’s November, after all, and it demands your full attention. It shakes you up like the aforementioned leaves and you’re left wondering whose shadow ravished you in the middle of the street while coming out of the beauty salon. Minutes pass till you decide to do what only common sense could tell you to do: write that down. So, you pick up the pen:

This doesn’t feel like summer
This rugged shadow closing in
Like the embracing of a lover
Who lost his softness in the field
The field of battle changes all,
The ones who fight, the ones who stay
The ones who merely look at life
Eyes blind, soul grinding, mind away
This doesn’t feel like summer
This doesn’t feel like me.



But Sir,
November Dance