To: November Re: Remember

Looking back cruelly on the carnage of the calendar-

First, on the day of the dead, let us give birth to new slates traced with prehistoric calcite...erasure.

Secondly, “writing is aid to memory-the sentence…” He said.

Third, Robots writing literature? No twitter bots. Love Letters from Eliza make me grumpy today.

Fourth, Truck didn’t start, need a new starter, makes sense, costs bucks (I don’t have).

Fifth, Close Doors. Open windows. Filtering the light. Breathe the sunshine.

Sixth. Days bleed, the trees drip, my well is going to dry up.

Seventhly- It’s a UFO! A meteor! We are not in control of this universe?! Nope, just the Navy.

Eighth. Washer thrown off kilter (by extra ‘h’), Alex, my repairman, is Russian!

Ninth. Rain. Slow drip. Watch sky, blame clouds for dimming prospects. Real is a cumulus. 

Tenth. Parents 30^th Anniversary… all there is, never after. Under Happily.

Eleventhly, missing grandpa, working with his words, at least we can talk there.

Twelfth, “By denying me the seas”, “By denying me the seas”, “By denying me the seas”

Thirteenth of Friday: City of Love Lost and Lights Out. Oh Paris! You have taught the world of love and heartbreak, you are all made stronger. Love trumps terror over time.

Fourteenth, yardwork, laundry, cooking, cleaning, redundancies, monotonies, shuffle the deck and pick a spade.

Fifteenth. Sunday comes with a warning- of a storm-that never comes. Nap, read await.

Sixteenth, hollow menace in heavy heaps of leaves, branches broken, dunes of needles roll with it.

Seventeenth. Synapses firing bullet points of philosophy and poetry. The dentist drills my daughter.

Eighteenth, Mom’s birthday, ecard, thanks. Unproductive avoidance, errands and cleaning.

Nineteenth, nose in book. Reading. Anything but writing.

Twenty ways of being Social. Sharing is caring and blaring about “selfie”, tasks of wearing masks, wearing the day away.

Twenty-one, Push, fold, draw, brush, sweep, stay; filling the green waste on  (re) cycle.

Twenty-second(s) of rest.

Twenty-third. Mundane Monday, a myriad of myopia.

Twenty-fourth-Army to feed, fill shopping cart for one meal? Making mess.

Twenty-fifth. Appointments, Turkey and Doctor, I get them confused.

Twenty six steps lead to couch, thankfully.

Twenty-seventh. Not working. Nothing’s working. Nobody’s at work.

Twenty-eight days in, November is losing nerve, no more noshing necessary.

Twenty-ninth. Frigidly forgetting. Left frozen and unchosen.

Thirty ways to say this was a November I will now remember, bite by bitter bite.

Image By copy (18th or 19th century) after Joachim von Sandrart (orig. 17th century) (http://www.hampel-auctions.com) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Der November.