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At Novemberís End

By John I. Blair

At Novemberís 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 Natureís children,
Hide where they can.

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

Though the cost in lives
Has been enormous,
Thatís never been a factor,

A thought that
Doesnít bring me
Solace.

©2018 John I. Blair, 12/16/2018


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