November

November

I am November.
My face is pink,
Wind burnt with early Winter air
That’s still fall,
Flushed.
I am jumping in piles of leaves
Brown, yellow, red, orange,
Surrounding me
Leaving all bare dirty branches
Sticking up into the gray sky.
The smell of pumpkin pie
Is sifting through my nostrils
On a breeze that ruffles my hair.
I imagine them baking in the oven,
Crisp and bronzed,
Ready to slice and devour.
I twirl like a ballerina,
My hair whipping around and around
As I eat the remains of Halloween candy,
Wrappers crumpled in my fists.
“Come inside, come inside” –
But I won’t. For I am November.
I am outside,
Rustling leaves underfoot,
Spicy scented, sleepy
November.