November

Phillip Brown

The winds toil,
spinning strands of smoke
in the November air,
and the aspen stands
slender-framed
at the edge of the woods.

The sunlight shines through
its leaves—rendering each
gold and translucent
like a hundred tiny windows,
like wafers of honey
or amber.

At the cool touch
of the wind they tremble,
trembling
as if with the Spirit,
held loosely in the aspen's
silver arms.

A mockingbird wings
up from the brush
in his feathered cape of night,
dark and iridescent
with the luster of green glass
of violet from a midnight sea,

and he sails to the top
of the tree, settling
in the highest branches,
as if it were the attic
of an autumn house,
and he might find
some quiet there.

And when the evening
begins to weave
her colored thread
on the loom of the sky,
he is resting there still:

a king in his tower of gold,
a shadow within the fire.