November

I’ve never been much of a poet – I much prefer prose – but every now and then the mood strikes and I write frantically. What kinds of poems do I write? Honestly, anything really, depending on the inspiration. Feelings. Narrative. Comic. Plain silly (this one is my forte). Much of my poetry is inspired by Tolkien. A lot is also prompted by nature. Below, I’d like to share my favourite that I’ve written.

Slightly ironically, considering the beautiful Ontario spring which is finally settling in here, the subject of this poem is November. I wrote it a few years ago on one of those horrible November days that seem to drain the vitality out of everything; I think it captured the desolation, yet strange beauty, of the day quite well.

November

November’s grey and dreary. The wind blows sharp and cold.

I don’t know if I like November. The trees are empty, dead.

Only the pines have kept their colour; the pines and a few other things.

The yard is lonely, forsaken – graveyard of beauty, of trees.

The fields are windswept, desolate. In them are one or two stalks,

Left behind, now dying, after harvest, freezing to death in the mud.

Everything makes me think of death: the trees, the plants, the flowers.

But when I look down at the dried leaves, blowing across the ground,

I know, in my heart, I love November; although, perhaps, I shouldn’t.

“November” Copyright Benita J. Prins, 2015

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