November: poetic offerings

'November above the 50th lateral,
Or, how i think i am a sunflower'

My bud face peers out the window
looking for sun. Seeing only
gray blankets which dome

the world, my face falls down.
And I wriggle and writh
feeling for heat,
looking for brightness.

But I do not uproot. I let
my feet grow deeper and,
with all my might,
lean.