Marking Nov 13

This year, the only one numberedThirteen, I raked last leaves one coldAnd windy day, and shoveled snow The next with no delay excepting But a single night between—a Night already lit by ChristmasLights put out by those who practiceEarly rites.
This morning on the thin snow leftI saw a few late leaves I shall Remember as marking this uniqueNovember—and silently left Prints of a cat’s paws. Thirteen nowVanes. That number for us has aCertain weight. But when it’s overAll—it’s fate.