November was a long month,
from garden’s last breath
before the killing frost
to now, when nearly all is dead.
As I walk along the beds,
now darkened in somber browns,
save the cheerful artifice
of winter pansies and kale
or late ferns clinging to green,
even their duration is doubtful
with the prospects of January.
I still remember a July
when there were pinks, blues,
yellows and even birds singing
tunes of their eternal pursuits,
melodies meant to seal a future;
and I remind myself that winter
is not years, but months and days--
perhaps briefer than the leaves;
and these thoughts are the streams--
as bright as the sun above--
which will move and lift our feet
until they reach the next spring.
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