“November–with uncanny witchery in its changed trees. With murky red sunsets flaming in smoky crimson behind the westering hills. With dear days when the austere woods were beautiful and gracious in a dignified serenity of folded hands and closed eyes–days full of a fine, pale sunshine that sifted through the late, leafless gold of the juniper-trees and glimmered among the grey beeches, lighting up evergreen banks of moss and washing the colonnades of the pines. Days with a high-sprung sky of flawless turquoise. Days when an exquisite melancholy seemed to hang over the landscape and dream about the lake. But days, too, of the wild blackness of great autumn storms, followed by dank, wet, streaming nights when there was witch-laughter in the pines and fitful moans among the mainland trees.” – L.M. Montgomery
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It is November
Trees settle in a new rhythm
Leaves drift and sway
Fall from sky to earth
Meld with the ground
Exchanging views
It is November
Waters rumble
Cold waves roar and recede
I collect leaves and pinecones
Scattered on the ground
And store memories
Like trinkets on a shelf
Toss what should be thrown
In the waters
Bury what should be forgotten
With leaves, to decompose
But treasure what is beautiful
And true
© prasanta, November 2017
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