At November’s End

By John I. Blair

At November’s end
Come cold rains
Blowing through bare limbs,

Pouring off the house roof
Onto the patio below,
Soaking dormant potted plants.

Possums, squirrels, birds,
All of Nature’s children,
Hide where they can.

I try not to worry;
After all, they’ve made it
This far over eons.

Though the cost in lives
Has been enormous,
That’s never been a factor,

A thought that
Doesn’t bring me
Solace.

©2018 John I. Blair, 12/16/2018