Wednesday, November 18, 2015
Late November––poem by Dorothy
Late November
Now, after this time of summer's waiting,
we have at last reached it,
the first snowfall higher up
and soon the turning of the
seasons.
Yellow leaves still fall on the balcony,
dancing their way into oblivion,
and the trees, unabashed,
display their naked limbs
like dancers in a club
before an approving audience.
Night comes early,
and the news is not good.
More dead and wounded
for some reason
we do not understand,
more vows to obliterate us,
and we wonder what
we have done.
Dorothy Walters
November 18, 2015
