November Poem by Joan L. Cannon

You forget the slant of November sun’s wan rays 
on Berkshire afternoons with shortening days… 
the shock of grouse exploding by your trail 
through silent woods now somber as a page of Braille, 
blinding from the side past stubble rows and stones 
and lichened markers tilted over bones 
of settlers, soldiers, victims of Indian raids— 
testaments that prove their story never fades. 
The glare obscures the turn to reach the place 
you thought would ease—a familiar space. 
Too long away has made proportions seem askew. 
You yearn to taste the memory, to prove it will renew 
summers’ warmth, paint box colors: greens and blues, 
reds and golds—the myriad lively hues 
of brimful times and bliss of fruitful years. 
This pallid light foretells it all, as winter nears.