November

November - Helen Hunt Jackson

This is the treacherous month when autumn days
With summer’s voice come bearing summer’s gifts.
Beguiled, the pale down-trodden aster lifts
Her head and blooms again. The soft, warm haze
Makes moist once more the sere and dusty ways,
And, creeping through where dead leaves lie in drifts,
The violet returns. Snow noiseless sifts
Ere night, an icy shroud, which morning’s rays
Will idly shine upon and slowly melt,
Too late to bid the violet live again.
The treachery, at last, too late, is plain;
Bare are the places where the sweet flowers dwelt.
What joy sufficient hath November felt?

What profit from the violet’s day of pain?

Light, Glitter... Dreams

Light, Glitter... Dreams

In this darkness of the moonlight, the pain is a constant memory of a burning question. I have seen home and tasted the bitter blood of loneliness. However, the path that opens up ahead lies untaught and straight. As a fusillade of road bumps that pierce my body along the untrodden path. Yes, I have seen home and tasted its sweet sore flames. Burned in the heat of the sunlight and frozen in the desert of moonlight. Now, I dance in the memory of a flickering flicker that frolics in the fading eyes. While the spasms of the heart long for a forgotten day of brightness, I feel the flock of an imaginary snow touching my hand and taking leave of my senses, to another space and time, in which laughs and peace is not an interminable utopia. Yes, I have seen home and tasted its bickering sounds of maze. In the middle of the afternoon, in the confusion of the market and sorrows of poverty, I have seen home and detested each single moment. I have seen home and wish not to go back. I have seen home… but now, I see darkness of an exiled path, a return that breathes strange. I place that is my alone. A no-place inside me.