20 something days

On the 20 something of November,
  no sooner than the cold wind starts to appear
in everything i write
 with each chill and its progression
   down or up the spine,
      an obvious diagram
  the science of which
        a fear,more than a fact
   i believe will arrive,
totalling the oddities i carry
      in my impregnated womb of verse,
          the misunderstood women
     and children i speak for,
   the trees and their unmoving behaviour
       the sky,the moon     their shadowing
apprentices all putting in their
       uninspiring shifts,
   and men bent around them

    into believing,
         if they already didn't
 that a poem is often baseless
      and i wear it
 for 20 something days a month,
        like a hat over my heart