november

I do not want
the end of november.
the pond
that collides
 across my room,
the meticulously placed
aura of gloom.
not november.
not that too.
I do not want
the end of the cold
more dishes to wash
more laundry to fold
I do not want the end
of comely
november
warm coffe
and glisteningly lonesome
poetry
solitude.
isolation.
I do not want
the end o
of november
the end
of death
and snow
and all things
ceasing to be.
all roads
diserted.
a glorious
abiotic
existence.
I do not want
my month
of hardly mornings
and hardly afternoons
of dead poets
whispering to me
vers by vers
setting me f r e e
more coffe
more tee
I do not want
the end of november
the end of a century.