November

here is the thing:
a scarf that flashes like the underside of an oak leaf
the color of sunsets, rust, the hardened peel of a clementine,
that matches the fur on an old cat, a Tiger tom,
will come and go.

against the cold,
worn carelessly, a needed warmth, with glory
in the details; a needed layer, worn soft and slightly threadbare.
bleeding tapestry into the chilling earth,
tis enough, t'will serve.

i wrap the thing,
the sprawled and stiffened shell of fur and bone,
beloved in beloved, these material reminders, these gifts
buried in the weeds, mourned in passing;
a cat, on the side of the road,
a cat no longer.

a scarf no more.