November went to the beach.
She’s just now returning,
Gulf water dried in her flaming hair,
Smelling of dark tanning oil.
She knows she’s late.
She’s a mare-beautiful
Girl in her knee boots
Blithing in after the bell
With no tardy slip.
She’s two overall-wearing Great
Hearts
Raking Delancy and Gus’s leaf-fall
Because Gus
Can’t.
She’s Regina
Stepping from her velvets and
Leaving them for the handmaids
To brush.
She’s the Sorceress in the air
Softly suggesting,
‘Hate them on Tuesday. Hate them!’
She’s eleven Men in red,
Eleven in purple
Tirelessly storming each other’s wall
To minimal gain but we can’t stop watching,
While the mealy apples simmer into
Applesauce.
She’s the Doyenne
Coming out of retirement,
Arranging her magenta mantle
About her
To speak the wind chimes,
One and all.
She’s the Inkling that urges
Sportsman Lake geese
To elect their first-leg point man,
And to give her regards to the salt life.
One thing she is not
Is
October.
The Pen of a Ready Writer 