November

November

When I die, let me be the cold November wind

                   that heralds the first snow,

                   that shakes loose the last leaf,

that sways the tall pine

and howls through her branches.

Let me be the wind, sharp and strong, wild and free.      

When I die, let me be the moon

                   icy-white in November

calling the last geese south

and we other beasts to the warmth of dens.

Let me be the moon, shining.

When I die, let me be the darkest night

of thick gray clouds

and the still brown earth

before the first snow of November

Let me be the night.

--MEW  11/2008

I love this poem I wrote four years ago.  It is about physical death, but also about significant losses and the little deaths we all experience like letting go of a way of being that no longer serves.  In my death or recovery from losses, I want this sense of freedom and connection to nature.  The poem feels wonderfully cold and gray, yet full of hope and longing for the next season to come.

 I am so grateful for the changing of the seasons in the physical world and in my inner and outer life.