Ship in a Bottle

November

thirty days of falling leaves deserting
barren branches for the soft ground
below, leaving them half naked to weather
the encroaching black-hearted winter

this is a month for harvesting ripened
remnants of loss, regret, and senses,
for tracing your writing scrawled in books,
each stroke and letter trembling of cancer

some four centuries back, on an island,
men plotted assassination of a monarchy
fittingly begging, remember, remember
their destinies fated and engraved in stone

it’s a time to honor those who sacrificed
in times of war and gilding vestiges of glory
but I would not dip your army jacket in gold
and rob it of the natural faded maroon

still stars leap forth from midmonth nights
landing their futures in the refuge
between words you loved famously spoken
seven scores and seven years ago.

so they say it’s time for giving thanks
for chrysanthemums to bloom, but I think
it’s time to battle the gray descending curtain
of emotional anesthesia, so remind me

just how red was the blushing maple
at the entrance of Sloan Kettering ?
how stubbornly did the birch outside
your window cling to its summer dress?

how deeply were the scars from the burden
of history and tragedy on your neck carved?
but most importantly, tell me, in the six years
since you left, why hasn’t a single day been easier?

Wrapped up in books - Belle & Sebastian

Summer's hastening on,
I'm trying to get a feeling from the city.
But I've been unfaithful-
I've been traveling abroad.