November
by John Daniel Thieme


the gilding of this small hour
seems sempiternal
that light
is the very medium of breath;
a brief transfiguring
of all things
as finches in the meadow seem to revel
in search of seeds.

in the half-light of the gloaming,
I glance to the east
but there is nothing in the east, only
a thought of heaven
as daylight fades. we walk
with wistful steps
slowly
from the meadow.

a few stray leaves linger the late year
forgotten by the northern sky and forgetting
the alchemy of song.
weighed down with rain, clinging
to cold earth,
abandoned as desolate lovers
unpropitiated; they utter
no complaint.

the wisdom of starlings
to seek refuge in trees with dead branches
ready to flee in all directions

from the north wind, these few birds flee
without song,
and I look north
in silence.






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