Born November Eighteenth
On a Tuesday, In Wisconsin
Grew up as melancholy as the month
But with each new November blast
With the first grey clouds rolling up on each other and past
Like they won’t wait to be last,
“Turning your nose to the wind to keep your skin…”
And you breathe,
deeply in,
And pronounce, with grit and grin
“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;”
As you stare down the inevitable barrel
Of Old Man Winter
Preparing his troops like a king
At first he sends his best knight,
a lovely messenger, “Sir Leaves of Fall”
Gallant and beautifully handsome in all his regalia and full panapoly,
“Prepare now!”
is his message, well in advance, a true gentleman, so polite
But very few heed the advice, and instead say “yea right!”
Then a first timer a very sharp and cold youngster,
He strikes with an early nip, his name and rank
Private Frost, Robert J.,
a little anxious and ahead of the main troops.
But like most youngsters “he’s good outta the gate, but not much for stickin around.”
When faced with the mid-day heat he melts away and learns to wait.
Then a Harbinger, a message brought by one sparkling so beautiful,
And a Hoar she is, a shock trooper, pretty to look at for sure…
in the morning, but you know she was ‘working’ all night,
leaving in her wake a wreckage that leaves no doubt about the impending calamity.
Clinging on to everything, slowing things down, draining man power,
Creating havoc, confusion, testing the weak spots, and the cost!
“She gets their attention every time” muses the Winter King.
Then the light troops advancing slowly, so to be caught,
By a child, even if that child is almost fifty years old,
But like “the caissons”, the white waves,
Of the Kings White Army, “go rolling along!”
“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;”
And so a holding action ensues,
a North –“western front” if you will.
Plows, blowers, shovels doing their best to carve out a trench
But sadly there can be lives lost, those poor souls,
An old soldier with a bad heart, a WAC who lost her heat,
“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;”
“But not forever lest we feint,”
It happens so quietly, we don’t even notice.
A lengthening of days, we’re so intent on not losing our “trench”, keeping our heads down,
We fail to notice the enemy is retreating, at first a “feigned retreat.”
To get our hopes up, then a vicious offensive knocking everything out for three days,
But then a message from the true king,
The King of Kings  Â
A daffodil, just one, surrounded by the enemy,
a bright yellow messenger, boldly carrying the message,
And with that one still small message, we breathe easy,
Knowing in our heart that “this to shall pass”.
Darkness, cold, and depression, all vanish in the light of the Son,
Born in November, on a Tuesday, in Wisconsin
So I pronounce, with grit and grin,
“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;”
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