has come The trees

shivering with the cold

[no longer blushing in pride

their skirts now all tattered]

begin their long bend

to the insatiable lust

of Winter


Only yesterday

one could hear them

singing & sighing Here!

Look here upon my breast!

An artist’s palette of colour

turned now skeleton gray

with creaks to frighten

a muffled child


The world

turns inward now

Hearth`ward to gaze

with melancholy at snapshots

of Springtime when blossoms

filled ancient orchards

to the hum of bees

in wildflower



has come The trees

alone now in the cold

grow old Their sap sinking

down into blackened roots

to feel to know to hope

for naught until

May returns


About Peter Notehelfer

I'm a retired people person who now finds the time to watch the little details of the world without worrying about being watched by anyone . . . I live on an Island north of Seattle with my wife named Ellen, a yellow dog named McGee, a yellow cat named Gatzby, and four fine chickens . . . I read fiction, bake bread, smoke salmon, and fish whenever the weather allows . . . Oh, and yes, I try to write a poem every day simply to avoid senility!
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4 Responses to November

  1. kiwiskan says:

    Whatever – it’s beautiful :)


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