I favor November to October, when the floor is littered with failure and a tarnished gold. It’s then I walk straight into the bramble, foothold in the musty, leafy mud, fingers in the rough-hewn skin of the walnut tree and pull myself in.
So much gained inside that ordained thicket.
I find myself eventually taciturn at home, horizontal on the front yard, peering up to dark. My feet feel faint, lightweight and soft, as if bathed in epsom salt for hours.
November . . . she is like that sometimes despite them bare branches seeming to spite us.
