The Dance of November


If I shall wake tomorrow,
and my sights be struck with darkness-
I will be grateful.
For tonight I was blessed, to have gazed upon this site..

The fullness of my love, Dianah; Shone through periwinkle clouds.
They marched across the November sky in translucent uniform.
The dance was set to early winter’s brisk song of distant wind-chimes.
The wildly, composed harmony echoed of an enchanted lullaby.

The fields awaiting harvest swayed.
The orchestra rustled the season’s end in song.
The tall, crisp, stalks caught the illumination of the Sacred One.
She beckoned me not to turn my sights away.

The heavenly depths overhead was but the deepest of all hues.
A blended pallet of the blackest purple and bluest magenta.
The color in reason cannot be duplicated, only beloved;
as the title to the color, in our perception does not exists.

A fan of icey cool wind brushes against my face.
The bitter caress stings my nose and cheeks, my eyes fill with tears.
The tears form not from the element of cold kisses alone,
but also from the scape which sets forth before my gaze.

Distant diamonds decorate the sky and flicker to late autumn’s presentation.
It is as if they have anticipated my arrival, to perform on this gala night.
I am all to eager to comply as their private guest of honor.
As the clouds swiftly pass through the stars, they blink in perfect harmony.

I continue to walk, my sights drinking in all of the intriguing, earthly wine.
I am being intoxicated sweetly with the mysteries which awake my senses.
All of what appears before me, becomes vividly surreal.
although I have traveled this path many times, on this night it is foreign to me.

Winter’s most precious art unfolds in the passing of the pale moonlight.
It is the melencholy silohette of the twisted trees.
Their leaf ornaments of bursting colors, have become faded and withered.
The leaves have let go, falling to play freely with the wind before winter calls.

Now the bare trees must dance stiffly against the night.
Their outstretched, black, arms reach high and cascade across the horizon.
Starkly, they pose in perfect poetic sadness.
Shadows cast and twist in webs of whimsy before my steps.

I peer before my path at their moving shadow puppet designs.
O’ how they toil.
Every movement changing from one shape to the next.
They trick my site, inviting me to stay.

Ah, but my attention turns once again to Dianah.
Her calling, her hypnotic phase, so full.
She is now clothed in blankets of clouds which mimic orchid waves.
Yet, she still remains the nights beacon for all who celebrate in her luminosity.

She bares a smeared rainbow of watercolor rings around her frame.
A promise to the spirit of all her admirers.
A promise that in the darkest of her absence,
she shall always return and grace the blackness with light.

O’ What magik ignites before me on this first, of November.
What script I must write, as to journal this moment.
As to capture this time on parchment to never forget, and always remember.
To remember the fullest moon which woke my sights.
To remember the music which I hear hush and chime before the harvest.
To remember the chill of the wind which bathes my skin and brings me tears.

O’ what magik ignites before me, on this night, during the first dance..
On the first, of November.

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