November
November wind challenges, chafes, cuts to the core. Conspiring clouds curdle the sky, smother gasping sun. It’s a time of grief, of ashes, of brevity, dusty loss. Gusts sweep away memories, orphaned leaves scratch at headstones. Stubborn whispers -- graven names, are scrubbed of sound in keening wind.
Brr! It’s difficult not to brace against the cold but when we relax and invite it (cold, grief) in to settle, we can become accustomed to it, adjust and move forwards. Lovely piece.
November really does bite a little harder than the rest, doesn’t it? The way you wrote it feels like walking through that wind myself—sharp, grey, but strangely honest. Loved how the grief sits quietly between the lines, like something the season teaches without trying.