November 

You forget the slant of November sun’s wan rays

on Berkshire afternoons with shortening days…

shock of grouse exploding by your trail

through silent woods, now somber as a page of Braille,

blinding from the side, past stubble rows and stones

and lichened markers tilted over bones

of settlers, soldiers, victims of Indian raids—

testaments that prove their history never fades.

The glare obscures the turn to reach the place

you thought would ease with sweet familiar grace.

Too long away has made proportions seem askew.

You yearn to taste the memory, to prove it will renew

summers’ warmth, paint-box colors: greens and blues,

reds and golds—the myriad lively hues

of brimful times, the joys of fruitful years.

This pallid light foretells all, as winter nears.