by William John Watkins
   
  

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Parkway Sonnet: November





     

The overcast, the leafless trees have made
A solemnness in me I would deny;
They seem the mirror of my dwindling days
These barren trees, this dirty cotton sky.
With winter not yet set, but setting in,
With autumn's bright display already gone,
The narrow branches, capillary thin,
An icy drizzle waiting to come on.
I'd like to put these dreary thoughts aside,
And tell myself it's California heaven
After Winter. I need some blatant sign,
But I'm afraid a subtler sign's been given
In meter always one beat out of time,
and sense in false, and ever falser rhymes.

Able Muse