November Is a Darling Too

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