A tree so overloaded with fruit, that it gave, and it gave.
Parents, brothers, sisters, wives, husbands, boyfriends and girlfriends, and other assorted lovers.
Circling around each other like satellites.
Close, far, and close, and far yet again.
November is always a pensive month.
Maybe, something to do with the diminutive light.
A time for renewal, and reflection, as autumn shrivels to winter.
Staring at nothing, as the afternoon sunshine, turns to an early darkness.
Leaking sands of delicious dichotomy.
History that forgot the present, racing mindlessly, into an imaginary future.
Lives, dreams, and meandering relationships.
Entwined in a spaghetti of hope, dread, and desire.
Waking up to the cold warmth of the winter sun.
Caring enough, might not be enough.
Perhaps, time will run away.
Perhaps time will stay.
Hiding turbulence in the bones.
Love and loneliness, in the November twilight.