I wrote this awhile back. Now that November has arrived...

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November Requiem The fallen leaves are singing in jazz harmony. No green remains and hard, brown spikes threaten me. I wish to play among them - adding my own improvisation, but afraid my own hands will merely crush them. What do I fear? That the Autum leaves will hurt me? or that I, as inadequate an accompanist as one can get, will sit on my hands for fear that my notes are poison? - that the rhythm of life ceases when my own heartbeat sounds? I play my silent solo in my ears, pretending I'm on stage, and eager ears impatiently await melody and swing. Life awaits my participation, but this train does NOT stop! And I can't decide how or when to jump aboard and join the band. Time, such as it is, stands still, and meter waits to be conceived while eager, edgy players stare me down, waiting for the changes, and I, fearing I have wasted all my time, am arrested by rest. My notes are secret, and Miles nods. But I - I weep before the empty tracks.