Fireworks whistle past our ears,
lighting up the dark night
as sky-flowers, laden with stars,
blossom above the bonfire
in sparkling petals of starlight.
While hearts burst with joy,
November sets off with a bang
yet quickly fizzles in a flash.
The dark half of the year begins
with leaves rudely stripped
from their sleepy, frosty branch,
all the while the west wind
whittles transient trees to bone.
The woods are full of sound
as squirrels scurry and scamper,
secretly stashing their acorns.
Glorious, pulsating and soaking,
the relentless November rain
washes gardens and seeds away
with grey, heavy downpours,
as something deeper takes hold.
In the dying of autumn light,
ravens sit atop smoky chimneys
drying out iridescent feathers.
As Persephone returns to Hades,
we too must revisit darkness,
sleep awhile before we rise again,
for fading daylight demands
more logs for the inner soul-fire.
On this poet’s midlife birthday,
here in the autumn of her verses,
a Self is preparing to be born.
Copyright © Deborah Gregory 2019