November

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November

Low beams of light

shimmer in leaves;

flutter of canaries’ wings,

bristle of fox fur.

Even the tamarack

has traded its green innocence

for a tattered coat of burnt umber.

You arrive with your flattery,

your sultry songs, where

buffleheads dive and bob

among wind-driven wavelets

that spark in the sun.

I have no choice but to

succumb to your charms.

 

Lainie Senechal

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