Between the last triumphant note of fall,
when maples, marigolds and pumpkins vie
for orange jurisdiction, and the rime-
embellished month of Christmas, there he is,
November. Stark. Severe. Demanding all
imagination can afford: a lie
might do the trick; an epic if there’s time.
Anything to fill that void of his.
by Catherine Chandler, first published in Candelabrum.
Editor’s Note: That quiet pause between seasons is beautifully demonstrated by this poem (form and imagery).