November

Are we all Hamlet, staring back at the jester's skull, 
Only, ‘tis our own future faces we do observe? 
Yes, I just read the play—teaching it Tuesday. 
Election Day and Laertes' blade piercing doubly. 

But it's November, now. Ripening into deep hues.
Cold comes, but there's a warmth in it, too. 
A spark in the gauntlets of gray, hope's membrane. 
The darkest time of year dips into a jolly trough. 

Are we all screen-stuck, staring at Internet's skull, 
Only, 'tis our own faces we do ogle? 
Yes, I need to look away, and up, at November. 
The month of crisp and lively decay. 

November is a heart beating beneath the hoarfrost. 
Waiting, maybe, for some kind of happy Birth. 

Photo by Jack Blueberry on Unsplash