November of 2024

Brinley B. Page

November chills cutting through the air
Breaking not the fragrance of the rain
Or brightness of the sun

For the leaves outside the window tremble and shake
Hues not yet turned warm
The chill does not come to kill swift or graceful
For the cold comes not at all

It is a thing so frightful I see
Upon my noontime stroll
The weather does not rest or break
To snow or frosted outside the pane

The men walk dressed in thin shirts
Trousers rolled to his thighs
Not looking to the greener leaves
Shining in November sky
They have not fallen to the ground
Nor have they yellowed still

This chill will not come this winter,
I doubt the snow shall fall
I fear the sun will keep its shine
And refuse distance at all
My coat hung on the doorknob
Looks out into the hall
The chill does not come to kill swift or graceful
For the cold comes not at all

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Brinley B. Page is a twenty-something-year-old writer from Missouri. She spends her days studying language and her nights vigorously attempting to craft with it. Having fallen in love with literature and nature from a young age, she prefers to spend her time in nature—where she is quiet but content.