November

Walking alone

the sun yet to rise

memories my companion

the air is warm

although it’s November

trees once colorful

are now being denuded

as leaves are torn away

the winds of the storm

tearing though branches

and I think about those times

when the winds tore through my life

tearing the certainties I had

what I thought were rocks

turned out to be sand

and faith is challenged

the Psalmist cries;

How long, O’ Lord, How Long?

as I watch the children play

jumping in piles of dead leaves

the irony of life not lost on me

life jumping in the midst of death

continuing on thumbing its nose

at the hooded figure

that points to the grave.

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