November

from Field Stones
by Robert Kinsley

It is still too early for light
only the second day of November
and darkness pressing in from all
sides.  the lamp in the living room
my only hope of salvation.
We ask a lot of this world
when the words on our lips sing
all beauty is light show us the way.

Oh, it is still November 1960 my father's house,
and I'm seven and rising in the cold darkness,
dashing downstairs towards the light that is my
mother, the kitchen all aglow where my brothers
and I dress by the stove, the over door thrown
wide, heating the room.  I remember thinking
some morning of the empty beds overhead
wondering how long the impression of the body
stays warm after the body moves on.  In the distance
lights shines in the barn, my father milking.  He's
been up for hours and knows the darkness and is
not afraid.

Or I'm thinking of my friend from college
born blind in one eye, blinded years later
in the other, a freak accident, who lives
each November now always in darkness.
Who told me once he still had vision in his
dreams, still saw clearly the face of his
wife.  Sometimes he said, I even dream in
colors.  Beethoven, in his last years,
deaf and his vision fading, lays hands on
the piano, the light vibrations, the tonality
in the air.  Beauty is
the light of the mind when the body grows dim.

How easily we are drawn down to whatever
defeats us, to those long moments of despair
when we think we shall never rise up.  But
even now the darkness is lifting, giving
way to November light.  Soon my son will
rise and call to me, are you there?
Yes, I'm here I'll say, in my mind's light,
I'm always here.