November Embers

A wonderful poem from my Douglass classmate, Mary Lou Meyers. The photos are mine, taken from our patio on a rainy November afternoon.
November-
echoing
autumn’s haunting refrain;
draining colors from flaming landscapes;
sweeping clean solitary leaves
on fractured branches;
blowing them into crevices
filled with summer’s festive leavings,
cushioning ground for winter’s snowy debut.
The gleaming raft drifts on undulating sand,
while a Sun Fish and Old Town lie marooned
on shorelines with uncensored weeds.
The volleyball net swings free
in the stiffening breeze.
The glassy-eyed Teddy worn out
by summer’s frenzied scene
stares vacantly from the corner of a bench
reserved for lost childhood fantasies.
Pine needles shiver in anticipation
of winter’s icy touch, their aromatic odor
blending with the earth’s musty compost.
November-
a forgotten month,
reduced from autumn fires to glowing embers,
starkly sandwiched between the crowning glory
of languishing Indian summer
until December’s frozen artistry takes hold,
a dreary introduction
to winter’s turbulent stronghold.


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