My November Poem

 

 

Purple finch

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

November

 

November is a season all its own —

a month of saints and souls and soldiers. Snow

will soon whiteout a fallacy of brown.

It is a month of waiting, lying low.

 

November is a season all its own —

a time for turning back the clock as though

it’s useless to pretend. A dressing-down.

Thin ice entices me to touch and go.

 

November, remnant of the year, is here

with dazzling dawns that dissipate to grey;

here in the tilting asymmetric branch

and sharp note of a towering white pine where

the pik and churlee of a purple finch

can either break a heart or make a day. 

 

 

 

[first published in Measure, Vol VIII, Issue 1, 2013, and in my book Glad and Sorry Seasons, Biblioasis Press, Canada 2014]