November
A November wind has roared for days.
Dead garden stalks lay bent and frayed.
The proud maple now stands undressed
In drifts of yellow against the fence.
Broken remnants lay on the yard;
A scattered blast of limbs’ discard,
And yellow litter in blissful calm.
A roaring November wind is gone.
The crickets have hushed and gone to sleep.
All nestled beneath the barberry.
While snowbirds busy the hedges to feed
Where ruffling winds misplaced their seeds.
Sadly, the walnut has nothing left to shed,
But an ivy still clings in brilliant red.
A rusted barn roof is left exposed
Where distant arbors used to grow.
And chimneys sew their grey, woolen clouds
For the bleak sky wears a sullied shroud.
The curls of smoke gracefully unwind.
As for me, a pensive knot inside.
To see the snowbird’s round, feathered breast,
And to think. Each year uncoils from the next.
Bright leaves that held such hope in June,
I’ve collected to make a sick perfume.
And piled these treasures in a heap;
Now smoldering and weeping in the heat.
I huddle closer to the crackling flame,
Knowing that winter will come again.
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