wandering in night gowns, frothy bubbles, and folded legs, This is my November. A 30 day stretch of sleeping, whispering in ears, and collecting words of elsewhere. I am saying goodbye to the month of repose, and wishful thinking. My slumbering days are over, I want to be young and foolish.
“That beautiful mild woman for whose sake
There's many a one shall find out all heartache
On finding that her voice is sweet and low
Replied, 'To be born a woman is to know-
Although they do not talk of it at school -
That we must labor to be beautiful.”
― W.B. Yeats