What is it that holds me back?
Stalls my passing
from month ten to month eleven?
Even clocks stop saving time
as if to step back.
Why do pumpkin orange
and witch-hat black
bore me, annoy me, sadden me?
Yet I yield, however reluctantly,
to hand out sugar plums
to ghostly treat tricksters.
Oh, cast me not as neighborhood ogre
on this annual Eve of All Saints!
Dare I turn the page,
the soiled and scarred page,
to the next thirty days
and find the numbers
—mine, at least,
and Luther’s too
plus dear Barbara’s,
inside the calendar boxes?
Not this child of November,
I say to me.
There’s the rub, of course—
a slice of the issue.
“What’s your D.O.B?”
Did I not arrive
once upon a time
wrapped in November?
That ugly month
with death-dropping dry leaves,
with chilly biting winds
sweeping into morning.
I hate to see October go.
No thanks-giving for successor.
But wait!
This pessimist cannot be me,
not the REAL me!
who takes pride in affirmative impulses
and smiles assent for each new day
and so, for each new month, too, no?
Yes!
Forgive me, Lord.
I declare Thanksgiving!
I yearn for the Advent of Christmas
and as day follows winter day,
I shall welcome the New Year.
