November

November.

Season of

roots and bones;

heart opening

heart breaking

Black Moon

breath taking.

The fleshy

bowls of hips

the Jurassic

curve of spine.

We wind,

ushered

in with

whispers

and descend

into night,

a rich resolute

night.

Faces

divine and

profane,

all and none,

materialise, meet.

And we

are here on the floor,

cradled,

lifted,

lessons and loves

sinking in,

drawing the blanket near;

whilst down

below

aromas

of Earth, onion and pine

beckon us to the river.

Damp decay

mingling

with the

sweet potent

crunch

of possibility.