Here, November means fall
And fall is when the leaves change from green yellow pink orange red burgendy brown. And November is when the leaves are mostly burgendy brown with a few yellow holding onto summer.
They all eventually give up and fall to the ground. The wind blows them down the street, which is made of pavement here and the sound of leaves scraping and crunching against it, is the great harbinger of rain and ice and snow and bitter winds and gray skies and negative temperatures. Now it is warm and the sun shines but the sky is a pale blue and the leaves are brown and most are down
This year everything seems important. The way the burgendy brown leaf falls on my open journal as I write or the noise the door makes when eldest daughter opens it, home from high school or the warm soft fur of my little dog. The sweet soft voice of my littlest daughter squeaky singing songs of her imagination or the beep I get when husband texts he is coming home. It is all very important and clear and center of my focus, my awareness, my life
I can’t hold it or collect it or slow it
But I know it and how it feels as it fleets across me, scaring and healing me, breaking and building me -this time fabric, this god to me