Dandelions in November
Spring and fall are having a brief fling.
Thickly buttered dandelions and dry oak leaves cavort
on an impossibly green November hillside.
They can afford to be indiscreet
as they bask in the sly glow of a low slung sun.
For this is, perhaps, the last warm day
of a season within a season.
The boundaries of the permissible are curtains thrown back.
In this fingersnap moment,
some may step out of themselves,
even claim to be more than they are.
There is a small window for these small indiscretions.
But, the truth is, few will notice and fewer speak of it.
It is chalked up as late autumn madness
and barely noticed among the final rustling leaves.
By this point, many here have raised their collars.
Only the rebellious root themselves
to begrudge what surely follows.
They bravely, or vainly,
choose to hold the last catnap warmth in little fists
before the darkling year turns her cold shoulder.