A canoe birch grows
from a white pine stump showing
the mark of the axe.
The muskrat-houses
are mostly covered by the
rise of the river.
Those handsome red buds
on often red-barked twigs with
some red leaves still left.
November twilight,
clear white light seen through the woods —
the leaves being gone.
My thoughts are with the
polypody long after
my body passes.
Wild apples have lost
some of their brilliancy and
are chiefly fallen.
Bright and clear yellow,
that distant poplar is a
P. tremuloides.
Yet the mist lingers
in drops on the cobwebs and
the grass until night.
November 2, 2019
November 2, 2017
November 2, 2014
November 2, 2023
A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau~edited, assembled and rewritten by zphx © 2009-2019
"A book, each page written in its own season,
out-of-doors, in its own locality.”
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