Monday, November 4, 2013

Poor Old November





November night is weighted; adumbral 
His early shadow that climbs the bare ridge
Hovers then covers earth’s wind-riddled lintel
Snuffing the silver that winds ‘neath the bridge

Somehow the shape of November night’s darkness
Keens the remembrance of what is no more
Even as I sense his brooding of moments
Nudging the hour to yesterday’s shore

Summer’s soft zephyr dons blue hat and mittens
Trading its laughter for roguish acclaim
Now he wanders lonely, like a lover smitten
With the enigma of yesterday’s fame

November night is a melancholy fellow
Tapping ice tear-drops on my window-pane
If he were May I would open my window
But poor old November must stay in the rain

© Janet Martin

Poor old November, I thought as we raced inside, shivering and slamming doors quickly lest he somehow get in. Even the shades are drawn...

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