November

When I die, let me be the cold November wind 
              that heralds the first snow,
              that shakes loose the last leaf, 
              that sways the tall pine.
                   and howls through her branches.
Let me be the wind, sharp and strong, wild and free.

When I die, let me be the moon
              icy-white in November
              calling the last geese south
                   and we other beasts to the warmth of dens.
Let me be the moon, shining.

When I die, let me be the darkest night
              of thick gray clouds
              and the still brown earth
                   before the first snow of November.
Let me be the night.

 

by Mary Weber

© November 2005