NOVEMBER: HER SISTER’S LETTER

Chill wind shrills in leafless trees.
White geese stream the white sky.
Crows rob the yellow corn.
One robin sings cheer, farewell.
Slam the windows, shut the door.
Too soon the snow will fall.

Futile, to hope to keep
the smell of summer hay.
Commonplace, to comprehend
that all will slip away.
Stars don’t dread the dreadful snow–
hiss of fire is all they know.

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