The End of November
It has finished its task,the moods and methods of November,
curing and hardening the sap of old timber,
revealing dried branches--a fallen mask.
How do I say goodbye to passing days?
with a shudder, with a ''job well done!''?
so distant, so melancholy now seems the sun
over the still pond, misty spector in a heavy haze.
Leave us! December huddles in the wings.
Why you're just a prelude to chilly weather
where nor'easters and blizzards conspire together
to strip the last leaf from where it clings.
What is it then--this End of November--
just another poem, another November-drenched thought?
a diminishing season, the good fight has fought,
a miniscule tilt of the planet, a stifled ember.
The next to last page to toss in the bin,
yet remembrance is more than what's on paper.
There'll be other repetitions of ghostly vapor,
settling unsettled over the pond and in my within.
Poetry by William Hughes
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Written on 2025-11-29 at 16:48
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