Evening in November 2020

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Daylight hours diminish quickly
into a sacred night. As less sunshine
becomes more candlelight,
shadows at home grow taller,
and haunting fears begin to knock.

Hoping to be more invincible,
I light tapers on the porch.
Three pans boil on the stove,
while I cook too much for dinner,
then turn the heat up 3 degrees.

Dry leaves everywhere are blowing,
creating a brown whirling storm.
Will there be a full, rich harvest?
I plan to invite friends over, so
less kitchen chairs sit empty.

November again, we love our dead,
and our dying. I wonder who is
in my future, or am I shriven, but lost?
Let us pray for final perseverance,
if there is truly such a thing.

Now at my warm, replete dinner setting,
other old souls may soon gather.

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