Every November
I comb through
The embers
Of things left
Unspoken
Of truth
Never said

So each November
I sit and
Remember
The things
I had buried
And tried
To deny

November's the
Month when
It seems onto
Pages
In bits and in
Stages
As much as
It can

Every November
I sift through
The embers
Trying to find
Pieces
Of the person
I am

To glue them
Together
In some semblance
Of order
To show
Myself
Or tell of
The truth
That I see