As November
nears its
inauspicious collapse—
fermented leaves
clogging curbs and
turning noses,
the white menace
of frost boldly creeping
out from every spurned corner,
and the piteous chalk-
grayness of clouds dulling
the edges
and muffling all sound
like a dirty makeshift
bed sheet pall—
even our prior sense
of disbelief
seems to soften,
caving in
in time with the moldering
jack-o-lantern skulls.
And it is only then,
finally, when even the most
trivial of gifts
would feel like a miracle,
that we are able to believe
anything is possible.
