Promptly Poetry - Book 3

November

November, I cannot let you go.
Withered though I am
so that veins bulge
under thin
age-spotted skin.
I cling to your branches, tethered only
by promises made in May -
A hasty agreement
contracted in the exuberance of youth.
November, your embrace is cold,
crooked arms and brittle fingers.
Please do not let me go
to lie, forever silent,
beneath December’s snow.


Written for "Promptly Poetry Challenge (2024-2025)" 

Round 3 Week 16

Prompt - Promise(s)