by A. David Abraham

The stark November day rises upward
Bleak and cold in its grey expanse
There are no boughs or leaves
No guide to lead us on our way
And there are no more breezes
Whispering until spring arrives

Dance of Death
Yet to begin
Yet already begun
In the sleek bare November bleakness
As the earth begins the regular turnings
Toward its yearly rendezvous with Death

Emptiness stretches round, leaden-dull
and swoops in
As the chilled spare dreariness
Overcuts the landscape
Plunging upwards with hints of color and fire
in tangled leaves

Moments of joy in the deadness of the barren
Uplifted landscape
Soon to turn into myriads of flowing water
Green with promises of endless untold
new beginnings


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