The first day. A first poem

When was the last time I wrote a poem? Months? Years?

Poetry was how I was first published, but after my son was born, it felt too exact for the kind of time and brainpower I had available to me. A few poems came out of mothering and writing workshops, including one published in Hip Mama about being a feminist mother to a while male and another that landed me a runner-up for Moving Words

Still, my more precise muse has been hiding out under a rock while I spend time researching and writing about health and wellness topics and finish up a nearly year-long renovation and move.

Today, before I heard all the chatter about NaBloPoMo, national blog posting month, I felt called to verse and thought it might be a fun project to try to write a poem a day. What slough will fall away, and what freshness might arise?

Maybe if I also get out the camera every day, I’ll see some other things anew as well.

Here my poem for today:

Eleven One

The first of November
doesn’t bother to even whisper.
It just sits still,
breathing shallow,
a giant sprawled out in sleep,
cheek to ground.
Pumpkins squat heavily,
singed and molding,
their foreheads sinking
and smiles dimming.
November First closes its eyes
rather than laugh in your face about
obsolete orange.
Its sky knows only how to be grey.

At this eleventh hour,
trees shake off leaves for clean silhouettes,
and we have a last chance for a new start,
to gather up the clutter
of the past year’s promises,
to soften small grey balls of fuzz into one mass
before shoving everything under the bed
from Advent until Christmas has passed
when the real newness starts.