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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










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