November - by Amy Belding Brown

November

Orion rising and the pearl-bright moon
wheels up the glimmer sky behind
a black lace crowns of maples.
From the town two miles away
a bell tolls midnight, each chime echoed by
the screech owl on the ridge above the pond.
You walk as if each footstep mattered --
your tread announced by wind-cast leaves
and the small grumbling of stones.
Some nights your sad heart grows so buoyant
it threatens to break free and follow
the upspringing moon. At your feet,
the pond collects the stars and, looking now,
you see that you can cross the water
on their tiny prongs of light.

November 10, 2000