For November I give you the little Latin moons @3lunaria@1, hauling water from town without spilling the beautiful sounds of the words themselves, little moons. May you compose a poetry of the tasks of this world in a privacy that is so amorous and does yourself so much courtesy, it is like the last great days of a courtship whose flower always pollinates your wrist. In the mist, get a good idea and do it. Inside the pumpkin may you carve the flame. For October I give you all holy the bell of the deaf, bells of alarm and delivery, one if the red squirrel hunts a mouse, two if the mouse finds a home. One if the chill sits down at the table. My brow is flushed. I'm wearing my orange sash, hurry. Or maybe it's better with you gone, a bird who escaped the gaze its beauty invites. Someone far away has made a decision in your favor. Or perhaps it's only kite-play, making infinity's sign that the old and the new pass in and out of each other forever. For December, a hundred-fold late harvest, acres with apple and pear picking an hour's work, and round about you so you are never weary dancers for amusement before your every day of study. Let sunsets regard you as God's maiden too dreamy to go home or on. I give you a lover who wakes waiting, who lies down beside you and is pasture. And who stays up sometimes craning after a few fireflies for fear you might cross and not come back. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LET IT BE YOU by SARA TEASDALE ON THE BIRTH OF A CHILD by LOUIS UNTERMEYER EPITAPH (ON A COMMONPLACE PERSON WHO DIED IN BED) by AMY LEVY THE GROVES OF BLARNEY by RICHARD ALFRED MILLIKIN THE CAVALIER'S SONG by WILLIAM MOTHERWELL ON A PIECE OF TAPESTRY by GEORGE SANTAYANA |