October

I It’s odd to have a separate month. It escapes the year, it is not only cold, it is warm and loving like a death grip on a willing knee. The Indians have a name for it, they call it: “Summer!” The tepees shake in the blast like roosters at dawn. Everything is special to them, the colorful ones. II Somehow the housewife does not seem gentle. Is she angry because her husband likes October? Is it snow bleeds softly from her shoes? The nest eggs have captured her, but April rises from her bed. III “The beggars are upon us!” cried Chester. Three strangers appeared at the door, demanding ribbons. The October wind . . . nests IV Why do I think October is beautiful? It is not, is not beautiful. But then what is there to hold one’s interest between the various drifts of a day’s work, but to search out the differences the window and grate— but it is not, is not beautiful. V I think your face is beautiful, the way it is close to my face, and I think you are the real October with your transparence and the stone of your words as they pass, as I do not hear them.