November

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There’s nothing left but overall
Remnants of what had once been fall;
Even where a week before
A leaf or two blew through the door
The dwindling days have turned to soot
The little traveling underfoot.
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Snow will follow soon enough
Careening through the unmown scruff
Of jimson weed and bush clover,
Nothing apt to be covered over
With just a midday’s squall—but soon
Winter will stay the afternoon.
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Then who will afterward remember
The few days readied since September?—
The ghostly sighs of thimbleweed,
The bony knuckles of the reed,
Whole fields of startled hair turned white
Before the year end’s stricken flight.
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I wouldn’t ask but that I know
It’s not just seasons come and go.
When ice gives way to watercress
And all of April’s loveliness,
Remember, though the days are few,
November has its flowers too.
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Pussy Willow Branch (Reduced)·
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by me | January 8 2018

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    This is my first audio recording using my new YETI microphone. My reading of the poem is just okay, but then I’m never satisfied that way. Best that I never hear myself. The poem itself is one I started not in November of last year but the year before, with a haiku. I finally devoted the time to finishing it.

November 17th 2017

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late
····November—streetlights over the empty
········sidewalks
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Once more I feel as though I’m at wit’s end, having nothing to write, struggling and dissatisfied with the last several haiku. I continue to rewrite them. However, I admit to especially liking the November 13th haiku—among my very favorite. Cheek to cheek, composting, two old lovers. The beginnings of winter are everywhere. Out late last night, walking the back neighborhood of Randolph, Vermont. The yards were white under a thin crust of snow, so thin the blades of the grass still poked through.
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321 November 17th 2017 | bottlecap
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