Grey days of November and December are always a different kind of beautiful, dressed mainly in greys and browns. All the vibrancy of the other seasons disappears and the landscape reveals a palette of neutrals. So, a poem is working itself out, not finished reworking it, but I like the concept.
Creation at rest, restoring,
never out of step with itself,
not frantic to grow just 10 more things
bloom 10 more times
set 10 fruit again, out of season,
keeps pace only with itself
keeps Divine Time.
Creation knows without planning
what a grey November day is for
and how it perfectly fits in
the grand scheme.