Of all the firsts, November first is one of my favorites. This solitary gatepost into the mellow fields of bleached gold. The single hand that turns the lingering leaves to gold or ash, depending on the mood of the year. November is the last mile of harvest time, claiming its portion of abundance but with a settled maturity. November lays claim on the feeling of holy days pending, offering the first as we gather and give thanks.
© 2025 Beth Brower
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