Sophie Kim

Cannon Writer

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.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *