November Is The Poet's Bliss...

The poet's bliss is November...

Sentimental hues arouse...

Warmth from autumn’s waning embers...

Wafting from nigh-barren boughs...

Where the brittle corn rows shimmer

Weighed with final harvest-boon...

Where the revived pastures glimmer

Green as green as middle-June...

Where the heavy heavens splinter

With inklings of snowflake song...

Where the emptiness of gardens...

Lines canning shelves, row on row...

The poet's bliss is November

Sentimental hues arouse

Warmth from autumn’s waning embers

Wafting from nigh-barren boughs

Where the brittle corn rows shimmer

Weighed with final harvest-boon

Where the revived pastures glimmer

Green as green as middle-June

Where the heavy heavens splinter

With inklings of snowflake song

And the kiss of Old Man Winter

Starts to flirt with old and young

Where the emptiness of gardens

Lines canning shelves, row on row

And the chores that summer pardons

Are tackled with gusto now

The poet’s bliss is November

Something in its brooding bent

Fills the poet with the splendor

Of a heart, humbly content

© Janet Martin

The poet’s bliss is November

Something in its brooding bent

Fills the poet with the splendor

Of a heart, humbly content...

Psalm 69:30

I will praise God’s name in song

and exalt Him with thanksgiving.