November
Trees hold space between their branches,
Mist holds back the morning sun,
Even birds are silent, feeding
Where the worms' dark tunnels run;
Early morning holds its breath,
So gradually are days begun.
Now that Equinox is crossed
We count the hours of gain and loss
Quietly, as though to lay
The murmuring of summer’s ghost.
Mist holds back the morning sun,
Even birds are silent, feeding
Where the worms' dark tunnels run;
Early morning holds its breath,
So gradually are days begun.
Now that Equinox is crossed
We count the hours of gain and loss
Quietly, as though to lay
The murmuring of summer’s ghost.
Page(s) 39
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