Novembers

Novembers are the monsoons
Passing the baton to the winters-
One leg on the boat that sailed
And the other that's poised to leave.

Novembers are the sleeveless T-shirts
Inviting the cozy sweaters for
Their brief retirement party,
While you keep tuning-

The right speed of the fan, cursing
The technology for not figuring
Out a regulator with a speed notch
Between two and three.

Autumn would have taken out
The horses out of stables by now,
To hitch a ride to conquer
The lush greens of the trees.

Meanwhile,
The Novembers become
The oceans that refuse to lend
Any water to the winds.

And the angry air blows dry-
To beat the land with its cold.

The Novembers finally turn as
The agents caution.
One has to store the fire-wood,
And the requirements of food.

Some may start carving for
That one lost person and
Some might start getting closer
To the one beside them-

As the Novembers turn out to be
The agents of longing too.