after Helen Hunt Jackson’s “November”

This is the beguiling month when
autumn days betray my summer lusts,
when draping raiment falls rich
and red from naked shoulders,
clings wet to breast and hip—
when carnal knowledge of coming
frost raises sensile, excited flesh
and longing springs with golden ardor.

A rest; and then return to the vernal,
a leap and surge of fertile potency.

Those are the months when summer’s flush
recalls the treachery of wintrous death.

About Greg Wright

I have worn many hats as a writer and editor over the years. Unlike my scholarly and journalistic work from the "old days" at Hollywood Jesus, Past the Popcorn, or SeaTac Blog, the writing here is of a more overtly personal and spiritual nature. I hope it provokes you as much as it provokes me.
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