Robert M. Simmons  

from Tracings (Poems 1964-1992)    

           November Evening

The November afternoon ends

with swirls of creamy colors,

pinks, greens, blue-grays,

dashed sparingly on the remote sky.

We sit together looking out

through a grid of small window panes

across the wilting field,

across the sable water of the bay

and beyond.

Waves of wind

lift curled, brown leaves

over grass and high into the air

where they glide, twist

are driven higher

or are driven back to ground.

We share meager insights

as they come to mind,

but the rush of wind

filtered through glass and wood,

is the sound which dominates.

The phone does not ring.

The radio is off,

as is the television.

Our books and magazines are closed.

We do not turn on lamps

as darkness spreads.

When we speak,

we speak gently to each other.

Needle point stars

prick the blackness all too sparsely.

The moon, like a single headlight

miles down the road,

lays the faintest glow

on reflective surfaces.

Out of the void

a tiny airplane appears

flashing red and green lights

against black sky

and passes overhead.

The mosquito whine of its engine

does not destroy our gossamer thoughts

but reminds us in its way

that the vast emptiness of night even

does not belong to us.

                            © 2003 by Robert M. Simmons

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Subjects: poems about, November, solitude, intrusion, poetry, poems

November Evening