November

The city dove

speaks in riddle,

clings to my window pane;

the summer’s in birth

from the trees to the Earth

and something in me has changed.

I remember her hair

smelled like an orange field

I remember her hands were cool.

I remember the November 

we were together

“I am fortune’s fool.”

A scuff in your boots

and blood on your cuff.

There’s moonshine in a tin cup,

the bottle’s run dry

and I don’t know why

this time wasn’t enough.