November has a feeling all its own,

a melancholy borne of barren branches

that speaks of fallow fields left alone,

of dying dreams and no more second chances;

those nights of Halloween have drifted by,

Thanksgiving doesn’t come until the end,

with Autumn afternoons still in the sky

and Winter darkness right around the bend;

a quiet time for reading by the fire,

for raking yards and watching birds in flight,

for piling up the leaves into a pyre

and drifting smoke that scents the autumn night;

an introspective chapter of the year

to contemplate our lives as we remember,

to celebrate the joyful and the drear,

the bittersweet uniqueness of November.

September was a dry affair

until we found the rain,

until the South was saturated

by a hurricane.

A wind machine of epic size,

a thousand miles wide,

a surge propelled by savage winds

and fattened by the tide.

We thought we hid in safety

up North, above the fray,

but Hurricane Helene, we found,

unsated, would not stay.

She tore across the marshlands,

and onto drier land,

and soon we felt the wrath of God

delivered by her hand.

Perhaps there is a lesson,

to grace this bitter pill—

but every year, the wounds are worse,

and healing, harder still.

Autumn teaches us that

we are at our most stunning

when letting go.

I’m watching my brother grow old,

I’m watching his moustache turn grey,

I’m seeing the man

that I might become

one day.

It’s my December now,

the days are getting dark,

the trees devoid of shade,

stripped naked in the park

the shadows creep in close,

the cold imbues its weight,

outside, the hours slow,

the year is getting late

I venture to the woods,

I creep out on the moors,

I seize these stark delights

while most retreat indoors

so stay within your homes,

while winter takes a bow,

the curtain falls in snow,

it’s my December now.

It’s not, ‘Do unto others as they have done unto you’

It’s not, ‘Do unto others as they might do unto you’

It’s not, ‘Do unto others before they do unto you’

It’s not, ‘Do unto others because of the color of their skin’

It’s not, ‘Do unto others because of their nation of origin’

It’s not, ‘Do unto others because of their accent’

It’s not, ‘Do unto others because of their religion’

It’s not, ‘Do unto others because they are powerless’

It’s not, ‘Do unto others because you are flush with power’

It’s not, ‘Do unto others because they can’t afford a lawyer’

It’s not, ‘Do unto others because they voted differently’

You know what it is.

Stop pretending like you don’t remember.

In order to repair the human soul after trauma,

one must make proper repairs, beginning with

deep breathing until you have flooded your lungs

with reality; drink copious amounts of water until

your blood has been bathed in the here and now;

urinate frequently, as a natural consequence,

and when doing so, contemplate the drainage

of stress from your body; spend as much time as

possible in the presence of great works of art

and reading classic works of literature, preferably

in a comfortable chair worthy of afternoon napping;

immerse your toes in warm sand whenever possible;

pet animals, preferably those that have been fully

domesticated and are unlikely to consume you;

take long walks under dense foliage, allowing

the electrochemical language of trees to infiltrate

your synapses; stand with your face into the sun

by day, and bathe beneath the moon by night

to rebalance your circadian self; after this is done,

do it again, and again, and again, and every day

rain or shine until you remember happiness,

until you remember why you are alive.

Every time I’m doing something, anything,

I feel like I should be doing something else—

when I’m writing, I feel as if I should be

running, and when I’m running, I feel as if

I should be reading, and when I’m reading,

I know I should be painting that empty room,

and when I’m painting, I wish that I was out

drinking, and when I’m drinking, I know that

I should be home writing but I figured, ah,

what the hell could one more do to change

the course of my prosperity, how does one

more mile on the trail remedy the disastrous

sequence of my life, and how on earth could

the next word that I write possibly push your

mind to some greater meaning such that it

influences your behavior towards grace and

forgiveness for what I’m about to do next—

which is to end this in the happily ever after.