November has stopped trying 
to push that stray hair 
behind her ear. 

She’s small now, small 
as a musty apple 
that’s rolled 

into the tall weeds. 
On good days 
she glows, 

reflects the amber light 
of an Old Master’s varnish. 
She bundles 

her love 
letters smelling of the dried 
tea of summer, 

studies her attic-scented 
sweaters for signs 
of the quiet 

work of moths. 
Other days, she soothes 
her raw throat, 

melts the first ice 
of winter on her tongue. 
November reckons, 

weighs 
choices: the labor of reset 
or ease of release. 

Bio: Jane Edna Mohler