four months of november

my walk is measured by the fox trail
the tiny hooves of deer in deep wet snow
from afar a church bell tolls
its metal ring strange among the muted trees

a cloud settles slowly over spruce and pine
spreads her skirts and comes to rest
across the fox trail and tracks of dainty deer
and quiet, which is not exactly silent, falls

as darkened trees shake their limbs
and rid themselves of heavy snow
sometimes dropping it expertly inside my collar
for fun or out of spite is hard to tell

the tiny birds know what they know
and tell me in no uncertain, royal terms
as I disturb their busy day and have the nerve
to stop in my tracks to watch

take it easy little ones I am on my way
see, I am moving on and you are safe
yeah right and make sure you don't do it again
there, we told her, didn't we, and have I ever

you sure did, my dear, and I was going anyway
the wet stings my face and I want coffee
this February is too much November for my taste
and spring is near and yet so far.

Poetry by Åsa Andersson
Read 586 times
Written on 2014-02-02 at 11:14

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Your expertise with meter always impresses me. So much postmodernist poetry no longer bothers with form. Keep up the good work. Liked the poem a lot.

I would gladly settle for "four months of November" . . . here February is usually the worst winter month, so much so that it's the one month I don't get out and do as you have done, to see and hear and contemplate what endures despite the weather. Thank you for letting me walk with you.

I see you went for your walk, yet the deer and birds, clouds and church bells failed to dispel the weight of February. It's true that the woods are conducive to meandering thoughts, but the thoughts aren't necessarily light or bright. I guess February must be embraced or endured, and the walks necessarily brief.

Chaucer Whethers The PoetBay support member heart!
This one is very enjoyable to read
You characterize the demeanor of
Nature so very well.