November

Lashings of wind and rain 

through leaves still green 

beginning a curl at the edges -

their wind-tossed sound contains a drying tone

that wasn’t there last week -

Flashes of golden light 

Gleaming suddenly and intensely

through the emptying clouds 

Tempestuous and dramatic beauty that

while exulting still 

turns my thoughts, wistful, to 

warm fires, baked pears, french toast, 

chocolate, chai, roasts 

Then the next day dawns fair

with sky so blue it seems to speak demure - 

Storm? What storm? Not I. 

Look, roses bloom still. 

I return - they are a bit the worse for wear. 

Fie, you can’t have it all, November says,

I’m bound by certain natural laws. 

Yet I give you golden poplars against skies 

serenely blue 

The most brilliant moon, a coin pearl spotlit at the bottom Of a sapphire-dark sea 

The last roses deepening their hue 

gallantly on branches bare 

bright leaved vineyard peopled by ravens in a mist 

newborn water meadows reflecting lights at dusk - 

look harder but look well.