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November

 

A rusted barb caught my heart

on an early November day,

and held me hostage to the presence of

dwellings cast, not so far away –

The frost skipped along the cornfield,

which autumn left unmasked; only

remnants of the stalks now stood, naked

in snow, that last night past; my

weary eyes wandered

 

quickly, to the rolling hills above

that claimed the seasons of once

my youth; they hold me captive still –

To leave them I have thought of

but know I never shall; years melted

snows into spring times there, summers too

they found my soul – Lest I forget

this present moment, these bones

 

this man, now  forever grown old –

November skies they call me here

with threads of blue and gray, and pull

me back to the dwellings of

Mother, and of play -The home

of a childhood, replaced

by one of child, that came to call me,

“Father” and laugh and love

 

awhile – Tiny feet replaced longings

for gifts presented by farther shores; and

for all that my life has been given,

my soul here not time to recall – Yet,

its meaning in site, so close to Heaven,

could never be replaced, as on this

November day – unaware I stood,

until a wire caught  my heart

along the way

 

 

bkmackenzie

copyrighted 2008

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