Month’s Mind November shade stills me, hours of light scattered by sun’s slumber, bequeathing the night to Hesperus and the grieving sky. November, the month of saints and souls. Months mind, as though grief begged our pardon before stealing the light of a thousand days and wrapping it in vespers. November, still-a-shiver at dawn the bearer of light floods the horizon, sunrays dropping down the bare branches, trust in the gold dappled grass. Christa De Brún
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