November, Again

i turned thirty and all i got was this lousy free verse

The leaves are turning in McGolrick Park and I am reminded of how quickly November has arrived. I had meant to write—of course—I had began to, and then I stopped. Too busy, too tired, disoriented and without words.

In October, I welcomed a thirtieth year and dragged Nat upstate. I meant to tell you about Beacon and how we stole apples from the farm, my dear friend climbing the limbs of a premature tree to pluck the Pink Ladies. The gentle thud of fruit hitting the ground as she furiously shook the most promising branches. The Cortlands and Honeycrisp already robbed and barren. The perfect red Fuji I tucked safely into my purse and ate the next morning while I thought of our great, great, many times removed, grandmother Eve and what recipe she might devise for a forbidden apple pie. I thought of how I could not discover what was holy until my life was without religion or gods or Heaven/Hell. I meant to tell you about the taxi driver who called the river “mystic” and how I began to record the rest of our one-sided conversation in hopes he’d reveal some other poetry and found it to be full only of stories about his mistress and his heroic masculinity.

I had meant to write—of course—but I had gotten distracted by life and living it. Driving to LaGuardia that day in September to return the rental car and realizing I would never turn back. The leaves. The light. The park, just outside my window.