November is a troubadour or artist that spellbinds us with
Plum silhouettes brushing pink slopes with twilight’s shadow-monolith...
Yesterday we went from this ...
...to this within minutes!
This morning was other-world like
as silver sparkles and golden leaves showered
the sound of silence!
Victoria getting a quick sun-leaf-sparkle fix before heading to work!
This poem's first line stirred with last night's
towering cloud-mountains in the west then this morning
the east sort of imitated a much more moderate range as well!
November heaps horizons with impressions of a mountain-scene
It broods in mercurial hues of blues and grays with gold between
A minimalist, earth, frost kissed is swept clean of foliage-debris
Where Mother Nature’s broom is brisk and whisks the whisper from the tree
November narrows numbered days of leaves still tinting woodland tress
Yet, soothes the pangs where farewell grieves, with unexpected happiness
Where we inhale an essence of fresh-steeped and poured Tranquility
A sudden hush that steadies us after the rush of harvest-spree
November seems to light a candle that we carry in our hearts
It warms us with the simple, humble joys that early dusk imparts
Of laughter as we linger longer over supper-soup and tea
Of thankfulness for home-sweet havens and the love of family
November is a troubadour or artist that spellbinds us with
Plum silhouettes brushing pink slopes with twilight’s shadow-monolith
Where Hunger throws a celebration, surprised by a symphony
Rather than its dull reputation of bleak notoriety
November is a poet’s page, an inkwell begging for a quill
A theater of silent stage, of tapers dimmed on yonder hill
A cradle where the garden slumbers in well-deserved dormancy
Where first snow kisses hearty bloomers clinging to futility
November is fires rekindled, curlicues of wood-smoke gray
Golden haloes beneath branches where leaf-orchestras fall away
Where cozy nooks and storybooks regain sweet popularity
And noisy blue jay rules the roost, raucous and cocky as can be
November is a darling too, though often She is scorned and spurned
For Her lackluster afternoon when welkin troughs are overturned
And landscape-capes have faded from vermillion to mahogany
November is a darling too, a love-me-tender melody
November is a window shuttered, yet the year’s shade is not drawn
November is a banner lowered to half-mast on bars of dawn
November is a drumroll trembling in blood-red democracy
The march of time reverberating like footfalls of infantry
November pours an echo-vintage, rich with hints of yester-rose
From flasks filled with fragrant petals, still, still a glint of summer flows
November plays our jaded heartstrings like a lover lost at sea
Aha, November is the darling of Nostalgic Poetry
© Janet Martin
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