November always has me thinking 
of mortality--mine, yes,
and that of all that lives--
the withering, the drying,
the slowing down
until the eventual ceasing.

But that blaze of slantwise light
setting the maples aflame
just before dinner--
the bears filling up before slumber,
the tiny wild creatures stockpiling acorns
before the ground freezes over--

the disinterested universe goes on,
as do we, stepping forward
in and out of light and darkness
and back again into the light.
Spring will come, and I will remember
that what seems an ending
is only ever a resting,
a perhaps unseen regeneration,

like how children grow
while they are sleeping.