November has descended upon our small town in Minnesota, and the giddiness in my soul is hard to conceal. While the instagrammers praise October and its royal majesty, something about the subtle weight of glory that befalls November; the purple-grey clouds casting a periwinkle hue to the world, the trees--half of them wrangled-out branches abandoned by their leaves while the rest retain their bright October garb, woos my heart most. Even the days when the clouds clear seem to pass as one long sunset and I realize that's the best way to describe November: a sunset, the denouement of the year where the conflict has ended and the world begins to turn in, shut down, tie together its loose ends.
As if the weight of a finished narrative is hanging in the lavender clouds and the air carries the burden of the year's story like our minds carry characters long after the last page of a novel.
November: let us reminisce, dance in your sunset, inhale the delight of your Creator from the brisk wind and the shivering trees. You are my favorite.
As if the weight of a finished narrative is hanging in the lavender clouds and the air carries the burden of the year's story like our minds carry characters long after the last page of a novel.
November: let us reminisce, dance in your sunset, inhale the delight of your Creator from the brisk wind and the shivering trees. You are my favorite.
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