Late November by Richard Meyer

Late November

Not a cloud or wisp of cloud
ruffles the wide unwrinkled sky
stretched tight as a blue scrim.

Trees stand bare and mute,
each leaf played out, a fallen note
in this quiet concert hall.


Somewhere in a large white room
another orchestra tunes up.

by Richard Meyer, first published in Orbital Paths.

Editor’s Note: The clean, spare lines of this poem reflect the pause between the seasons with great silence.