musée mia burrus

Days of the Dead


November calls me
to write from my grey mood, my desire
to hibernate with a twice-read tome, 
cling 
uselessly to the felt 
nothing-newness of my late 
middle age.  

No.  Go outside
and look more carefully.  Note 
the fresh-newness that is there
in every minute of every 
day in the world outside 
my head.

Embers.  Trees the colour of fire, 
of bananas, 
bright 
against the paste-grey sky.