November ‘s leaden sky of grey
Frowns through the mists of newborn day–
Illumination to depict
A summertime gone derelict.
Above a tangled tent of weeds
Stand sentinel the toughest seeds,
And overhead, like genteel folks
The dead leaves whisper from the oaks.
From where the river mopes along
A bird’s drab feathers match his song.
Prosaic November’s craft portrays
A mosaic done in browns and greys.
by Ray Romine Monday, July 26, 1954
