November, North of Pelee

is a jade-eyed

middle sibling, missing

Autumn’s pageant

by a gale, then lingering

for yuletide snow

it cannot grasp,

like a boy in line for

Kringle or Pѐre Noël.

November has no

gifts—none pick All

Saints’ morn over Hallows’

Eve, and memory of

the fallen

is the best it can bestow.

We are the Dead

McCrae had penned

by the poppies of Ypres.

A Belgic pregnant

poem we call our

own. The eleventh

would be barren

if not for the bullet

of Bosnia. It is better to

receive than give.

It’s forced to watch

in envy while a fowl

bathes in gravy in Ohio.

Here it’s late for galas,

October’s

grateful gild. No one

said it’s fair. The carnies

have all fled.

Dear Sister, you conceived

outside of wedlock,

like Mary and the swell of

our salvation, none to offer

treasure in your time,

you on the forest floor,

dormant on the

spectrum of its

leaves, slumbered amid

the crunch of their decay.

Andreas Gripp

July 3, 2026

photo by Jamie Grill / getty images