november horses

i crossed the path of a white cat,

this friday november 13th.

Am I more or less lucky now?

It's the season again when carrots come out

hugging one another tightly,

around the neck, belly, and ankles.

The crops know what's next and

they seek comfort in each other.

Similarly, leaves hurry to take

part of the collective sleep on the floor.

I find myself in the familiar pattern of sucking up

and deriving my own pleasure.

Mack Mead, a farmer, spoke last Saturday of returning home

this time of year, after working outside all day.

You swallow browns and crisps and purples,

decays, endings, mutings and fadings.

Then it's night and it's five and you've finished

because you can no longer.

You walk home. You see light.

and the world is awake and almost too much inside.

The walls are textured, colored, alive.

The smells are wet, comforting, like horses.

Pleasure is standing on the threshold between the two

and recognizing the stern outer angles

and the soft inner auras.

I put one boot inside while I keep my other out.