about november

a pattern of nature
primitive and erotic
she moves unseen
in her voice is the scent of wood fires burning
an echo of stillness hovers on her lips
frost cold hung on a night sky
darkness unfolds, beckons us within then
settles

heathered clouds gather in the wings of night
a black crow holds us inside
a waking dream as the curtains rise

a herd of witches old
their brooding stirs a cauldron
Ice faeries descend to decorate the land
backstage
a myth of monsters lend a hand
shifting scenes and passing days

behold Luna
her wild hair flowing
a white halo of fluorescence
rings of color soft moonlight glowing
drawing our eyes like a beacon

coyotes howl as if on cue
instinctively playing their verse
answered by the rattle of autumn
leaves stirring, winding, browning, dying
the phoenix seen bursting into flame

despite the normality
we are prescient gods who have lost our lines
passive viewers in an ongoing play
life as we perceive it continues
people tucked in their tiny abodes with
their tiny lives
forgetting that the earth is more than this
that at night animals and passions
roam free

the moon commands the sky to dance
as much as it commands
the sun to rise, and we - we are
a spellbound audience caught inside her
macabre theater
knowing the play in our heart yet
still trying to fathom its riddle,
still trying to touch
what we can no longer see

^{original images by torico}