November

November in the woods, a quiet time:

The sky is pewter, grass a tawny brown,

Where pockmarked puddles line the frozen path

With lily pads of ice and snowy frogs.

The sun is hanging low by two p.m.,

The empty branches glow in sunset red

And shapely fir trees flaunt the only green.

Horizon to horizon, all is grey.

I like November, month of steady calm,

The way I like a Sunday afternoon

With tea and muffins in the fading light.

I was not born for raucous August heat

But for November’s placid winter gloom.

by Jane Jacques

Words In Motion 2014