November is reflective,
A Mirror,
Not a milestone.
And traveling here
Beside flowing water,
A twisting, low path,
Ascending, but
Known for treacheries;
I gaze heavenward
To the misty heights
And ponder Snow.

Rain splashes,
Puddles soak,
The drizzle chills,
But I am content
To be here;
Well aware of Winter
Harrying even now
The high green firs, but
Currently consciously
Mollified in twiggy
Leafless maples.

11/13/2001

Author's Note: A birthday poem.

Posted on 11/13/2001
Copyright © 2024 Leonard M Hawkes