November

November

 

 

Glistening white, unique and alone.

Drifting from high above to here below.

Settling one on another, building up

A landscape of white.

The empty, quiet world awaits

For that soft touch of frozen fingers,

Caressing the tree, the brush, the soil.

White drifting, wafting, floating.

Silence blanketed in muffled chills

Alone, unique, silent, wandering.

Come hushed stillness.

 

By David Corbet

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