After everyone is back at work and the leftovers are gone . .
You try to be grateful for just the sun on your shoulders and try to remember spring.
And hope that everyone you love - knows it . . . .
November makes it all seem more important.
Leave us something of yourself,
sweet trees, indifferent bees,
spiders wrapping up a summer’s job,
now listless in the chilly breeze.
Leave us something of yourself.
Do not forget these eyes that traced
your dewy webs and pollened toes
and watched you love the sky’s bright face
with fingertips that airily rose
to brush the clouds with leafy lace.
Leave us here believing
in the hills aglow, again,
and in a churning freshet searching
for what it cannot know,
but then, again,
It is this season’s yearnings
that foretell Spring’s bright returnings.