November, Feverish Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr.

November,
days, feverish and quivering
like a child
left in the cold.
it is in the waking of your eyes
that the forests are shaken with life
as the sun dangles from
the lips of the horizon,
kissing with torrid flame
the naked body of the Earth.
i am lost in November:
sleeping or awake,
you open a garden for my undeserving hands.

it was splendid to breathe
the wind of our timid life
now into the sea of my somnolent renewal,
i sleep in its immense hands.