(Photo by Clay Banks on Unsplash)
November
by Dawn Pisturino
When November came,
We sat around the kitchen table after dark,
Telling chilling tales
Of ghosts and other phantoms of the night,
While wooden logs crackled and burned
On the old stone hearth,
And a cold wind wrapped its spectral arms
Around the ancient wooden cottage.
We warmed ourselves with hot mulled mine
And spiced apple cakes, thickly iced, --
Laughed at our superstitious fears
While trembling in the candlelight.
The old crone, at the stroke of midnight,
Told our fortunes in our hands:
Wedding bells for the shiny-eyed young maid
In spring, and a son born by the end of the next year.
The yellow moon peeked in at the windows,
Laughing at our humble ways,
Then rose into the sky on a thousand brooms,
A friendly witness to our midnight celebration.
Holding hands, we danced in the moonlight,
Our cloaks pressed tightly against
The frosty cold; and when morning dawned,
Feathery snowflakes drifted from the sky,
Nature's sign that Winter celebrated, too.
Published on Gobblers & Masticadores on November 4, 2022.
