November’s last gifts—
 
a few bedraggled zinnias
 
still grace my garden.

 
 
 

November rainstorm—
 
each drop hitting the sidewalk
 
goes plink, plank, or plunk.

 
 
 

November morning—
 
an old man walks through the park,
 
greeting all the dogs.

 
 
 

Cold November day—
 
I linger over coffee
 
and Sappho’s poems.

 
 
 

November’s last rain—
 
the leaves that clung to the oak
 
now litter the ground.

Waiting

 
 
 

waiting for first snow
 
the last days of November—
 
an empty duck pond

Note

 
 
 

November morning—
 
the frost on a blade of grass
 
piping one thin note

Bells

 
 
 

Buddhist temple bells
 
drowning out the first sprinkles
 
of November rain