A Poem about November

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

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

That serves no purpose but to slow us down.