November on Naadowewi
The cold November wind brushes bones and skin,
rolling off Naadowewis with a chill sharp as glass,
pushing through fog with a restless, relentless force.
Ancient oaks, sentries, rooted deep through centuries,
shed their last copper and gold, their fragile grip released,
each leaf sent dancing in the wind’s careless hands.
Leaves skitter and scrape across the worn pavement,
a broken rhythm caught between start and stop,
whispering like thoughts too wild to settle.
And Gord’s voice drifts through, raw as these bare, little-boned trees,
singing verses that ache with long-lost memories,
an earworm etched from the heart of a country’s soul.
The fog thickens; I’m a figure on the lake’s edge,
half-waiting on miracles, half-braced for disaster,
straining through the mist to see if truth or ruin looms.
Hope walks a fine line in this gray, ghostly light,
and fear stands close when the wind turns so cold,
a companion, a warning, a dare to press on.
On some foggy stretch of shore, this deep November,
I stand with words that tumble, cling, and wander,
a beatnik spirit, a restless dreamer, a poet on edge,
aching to know if the world will prove me wrong or right.
There is this dry dispare & hopefullness all at the same time.
Another gorgeous write.