November

More tapping,
more soft fall and landing,
more speech of dripping leaves
after rain.

More howl
to our midnight wind.
More window spatter
to our gale gusts.

More eyes that won’t
look away.
More hands making
first contact.

More rough music that makes us
terrified, exhilarated, 
dance-filled, then exhausted
and ready for silence.

More, more…
more gratitude for how painful
this world can be
but often isn’t; 

more holding, more embracing,
more firestoking, more
handing over of our coats
to those who need them more.

More long hours
of side by side play,
more destroyed beds,
more windows fogged.  

It isn’t easy
to explain this desire to suck up
all of existence
into oneself.

Enough to say
a hollow man seeks 
to be full, but
never feels that way.