After three days of steady rain –

over two inches said the radio –

I follow the example of monks

who write by a window, sunlight on the page.


Five times this morning,

I loaded a wheelbarrow with wood

and steered it down the hill to the house,

and later I will cut down the dead garden


with a clippers and haul the soft pulp

to a grave in the woods,

but now there is only

my sunny page which is like a poem


I am covering with another poem

and the dog asleep on the tiles,

her head in her paws,

her hind legs played out like a frog.


How foolish it is to long for childhood,

to want to run in circles in the yard again,

arms outstretched,

pretending to be an airplane.


How senseless to dread whatever lies before us

when, night and day, the boats,

strong as horses in the wind,

come and go,


bringing in the tiny infants

and carrying away the bodies of the dead.


Billy Collins

3 Responses to “November”
  1. Millie Ho says:

    I love this. Macabre and brilliant.

  2. Great post today thanks. I enjoyed reading it very much.

    Feel Free to Share this wonderful poem with everyone:

    – A River of Time –

  3. munchow says:

    This is a lovely, little poem. Foolish to long for childhood? Seems like not… Thank you for sharing

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