Friday, November 27, 2015

Late-November Rain

Rain runs translucent sighs
Through November’s demise
It drains the leaning skies
To lanes, lawn, bluff and brake
It spills its thrumming bond
Beneath hills, reed and frond
The garden is a pond
The meadow is a lake

Rain raps upon the street
Ten-thousand-thousand feet
Like tap-dancers, compete
In late fall’s bleak ball-room
A roof-top pirouette
A moody minuet
A gloomy silhouette
Ravishes summer’s tomb

Rain rushes through hushed trees
It shushes dark-some leas
And brushes melodies
Across the huddled shape
Of harvest gathered in
Of flower stripped of grin
Earth shivers in the wind
And waits for Her white cape

© Janet Martin

Yes, Her White Weekend cape is gone...

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