bad haiku for mid-november

today, the air is

all october, a mix of

leaves and nostalgia

that betrays what's left

of the constructs we cling to

in the aftermath

of the second week

of november. this day feels

so four weeks ago,

like former years when

trees peaked as scheduled. this year,

they reject their own

anatomy, their

fated decline, and instead

attempt to remain

as they were, remains

of a summer that exists

only in shadowed

memory.  in a

few days, the green that persists

will drop and die and

nothing will stop that.

november will once again

be november, the

way it must, the way

we all are.  this month feels so

forty years ago,

decades fortified

against a clock that cannot

be unwound.  or a

timer. such things wound

equally well, depending

on one's perspective.

one morning this week,

logical fallacies on

tap, a middle-aged

woman tapped her desk,

fixed me with a look and said,

"be careful."  the room

became the week, the

year, the decades.  everyone

felt it. i hadn't

said anything.  it

was a warning shot and a

moment that defined

more than that student

will ever understand.  i

will be careful – as

careful as deluge

that follows the harshest drought,

as careful as time,

careful as hornets,

careful like vesuvius,

like cannonade, like

cacophony, like

clamor, cracking, crush, and cause –

and effect.  oh, yes,

effect.  i will be

careful, as careful as a

comet and just as

easily resigned.

Great Lakes Greta