We sometimes forget that
it rains in November.
The onset of frost is always
so shocking, and on our doors the wind
is knocking, and we have perfected the art
of pretending no one is home—
Because we sometimes forget that
the frost is alone; that it lays to nap,
to sink and seep between the
dry and crackling skin of the earth—
Because we forget that there is heat.
We often forget there is warmth in November,
one which melts butter and hands
and last night’s arguments into nestles.
There is a November rain
thanks to this hair of fire in the air
that coaxes the mind’s entanglements,
that softens precipitation
into warm weeps from above.