Three attempts today. Cuz in November, we poem. Even when we don’t feel like it.
as if made of some ordinary magic
the sky’s a cauldron,
shirred along the edges
by some dark star-spell.
We tell ourselves
we’ll go home soon,
but the moon
has other ideas.
as you wish
(cue the pirate-prince tumbling
down the hill)
upon all these fallen
this broken sky,
i hope that you will
i tried my tired best
to follow that punch-drunk sun,
wasn’t quite as bright
as you were.
as she holds her breath before the next rain falls
she calls herself
renames the moon.
And three special poems! Fun to find Westley’s “as you like” here. 😊
The title of this post is its own poem. The idea of inviting [a lowercase] November just floors me.
“i tried my tired best
to follow that punch-drunk sun,”
“she calls herself” … with a transparent hot pink light-up phone, I hope