Nov 2017
(a minute poem)
October turned the leaves to gold
but now the cold
November wind
rustles their thinned
and tattered remnants on the trees.
No kindly breeze,
this bitter blast
will tear the last
few faded leaves from oak tree's crown
and cast them down
onto the earth
for spring's rebirth.
October turned the leaves to gold
but now the cold
November wind
rustles their thinned
and tattered remnants on the trees.
No kindly breeze,
this bitter blast
will tear the last
few faded leaves from oak tree's crown
and cast them down
onto the earth
for spring's rebirth.
Not a minute (very small) poem, it has sixty syllables, like the seconds in a minute, arranged 8-4-4-4-8-4-4-4-8-4-4-4, in rhyming couplets.
(81/M/England)
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