Warmth in November

Winter came early this year, killing off
all the flowers but one. Stunting the grass
in the fields. Inevitable, but for

the strange November warmth of the past few days
when the last flowers in the garden decided to bloom
again, in a flurry.

You wake to the demons that have danced
around your life for a pair of decades. Dark
as February, and cold in the morning.

They taunt you. Aware they will lose the battle
of the morning, nonetheless they taunt you,
as if to make sure your mornings can never

be the joy they once were. No matter,
You gird the sword. You snicker snack them
ply them with words and logic you may not feel

but know works. Imperfect tools of an imperfect man
who is not better, but far more determined than they.
A poem. A touch of love. Coffee.

Self-talk that may or may not be more true
than the drivel of demons,
but at least the words are mine,

and neuroscience tells us that matters.
A prayer. A kiss. The touch of skin you love and loves you.
a cat on your lap. Coffee. A warm November sun.

My army is greater than theirs can hope to be.

About this poem

A few weeks ago I had the last Cosmos blooming in the garden. I even wrote about it. Then we had an odd warm spell and the garden is suddenly full of them and the browning grass is suddenly green again. How quickly the earth responds to gentle warmth! Works with people too.

The picture was taken at the edge of my little town in Vermont.

Tom