November sometimes gets a bad rap. Cold winds wrap around the midwest, forcing the summery windows closed. November comes causing the farmer to race against the frost for the life of his crop. The college student stumbles around in their top drawer for a pair of warmer socks. November is an honest month. It's usually overcast, rainy, cold. There is nothing to hide here.
Children with sleep still in their eyes wait early by the driveway, speaking breath into the air, waiting for the school bus. The trees wave white flags and give up the last of their armory of golden and auburn leaves. The direction of the light changes. Fall has come, and it quite nearly gone.
November is my favorite month.
And here is a poem that I love today by my friend Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:
I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song?   Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.  |
L.
Beautiful--thanks.
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