November

The barn into which we gathered our harvest

Outlined by the November sunset, reminds us:

What's done is done

What's not done is not done and will not be

Not this time

The season for growing is over 

The trees stand on ceremony

Few of their leaves  

Each painted

By the palette of the Divine Artist

Still clinging to limbs

They wait for the inevitable

When winter's winds will strip what's left

Of what Spring wrought on their branches

When the season was full of promise

November's love for us is unrequited

Until that time

When November is all we have that remains

When there is nothing left to gather into the hayloft

And we will wonder:

Will it be enough

To satisfy the Master of the Harvest

Who does not reveal 

How He will weigh the fruits of our labor?

The sun sets over the fields

Marked by monuments of granite and marble

Engraved with the names of the laborers

Who have set aside their plows

And entered into their rest

Listening for our prayers

That beckon the Master

To measure with kindness

What has been reaped

By the fields they have sown

We look and listen in earnest

For a sign

Any sign

That will let us know

They have safely reached home

But the only voices we hear in return

Are those in our memories, asking us

If we have done enough

To love November as we should