By Madeleine Higgins
November brings the ends of things closer.
It calls to mind the plights of some medieval ancestor,
Mother’s father’s father’s mother, or reverse,
Fretting over grain storage and plague. The dry nights feed it.
Still, falling in love in colder seasons—
Gloved fingers interlocking,
The knocking of boots,
The touching of frozen noses—
Seeing someone else’s breath in the air,
Rubbing against the expiration of her existence.
(And the fragility. Fingers fall off.)
So haunting. Love.
So pretty! Will send this to my sister – she loves poetry.
I love the imagery!