Into November

November walks in,

soft-footed, heavy-browed,

with a sky the color of brushed steel

and a whisper of cold on its breath.

Morning light pulls itself up

through fog

as golden leaves cling

to memories of what was.

The air carries a silence,

almost sacred,

where trees exhale stories

in the language of bare branches.

Frost maps the ground

like constellations,

each blade of grass

a shimmering compass.

The woods breathe differently now,

an echo that shivers

down the spine of every path,

guiding me forward, somewhere.

I feel the world settling,

readying itself

for the quiet of the months ahead,

a lullaby whispered

in shades of gray and amber.

Rivers slow their wild rhythms,

calm, thoughtful,

mirroring a sky

that seems to stretch wider,

more open,

inviting contemplation.

There’s a heaviness in my steps,

and a longing to rest,

like the earth growing still

to let dreams root deep.

Each night creeps in earlier,

the stars burn bolder,

and my heart hums

with the rhythm of change,

wondering what waits

within this pause.

This season demands presence,

asks that I linger

among memories,

feel the weight

of what is slipping away.

The fields wear their bones bare,

no longer golden

but hauntingly beautiful

in their undone state.

I breathe in woodsmoke,

warm cider,

the scent of endings

wrapped in woolen blankets.

Here, between last harvest

and the first snow,

November is a teacher,

a quiet priestess

holding space

for all that must sleep.

The wind wraps around me,

half whisper, half warning,

and I pull my coat tighter,

grateful, somehow,

for this cold that feels

so honest.

I walk into this month

with reverence,

hands empty,

ready to learn

how to let go

and love the quiet.