“It was November…”

“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...

Cinquains (poems)

  Phases Leaves drift separated torn from solid branches glorious even in death– dreams endure. © prasanta September 2017     Begin Winter will find its rest when morning arrives and the sun makes us forget what aches. Begin…. © prasanta...