Few poets want to write about November. It’s just not the stuff of poetry. So I decided to write one myself. I’ve become a fan of blank verse lately, so that is the style I chose. Its 14 lines will remind you of a sonnet as well.
November days are not the stuff of poems.
The chilling rain from dreary cloudy skies,
Too late for farmers to be glad it’s there,
Not cold enough to snow, so what’s the use?
The reds and yellows that we all admired
Have given way to brown and barren boughs
And endless piles of leaves to put in bags
And line the streets to wait for garbage trucks.
In recent years November has become
The month to write that novel long neglected.
Nothing else to do but stay inside
And wait for snow and coming Christmas joys.
The month seems like a comma or a dash