There is a rose
There is a rose which shivers
this November afternoon
A faint mist about
the bird feeder dripping empty
no birds sing or feed as
I sit and write and glean,
seek inspiration; even the birds
have shunned this November day.
August songs a memory, a compensation ,
this cold bleak afternoon at three.
At five it will be dark.
Berries, red cheer the day .
Advent now, soon Christmas tide
relief from quarrels.
Faith returns until January
with it fate: . . . . . . . . spring returns .
Nature's promises believed.