My November Guest

The leaves are down. The mornings are dark. Robert Frost says that’s OK.

This time of year brings its own kind of dread. After the pumpkin glow of Halloween, the dark of November comes on, even before I’ve eaten the leftover candy. Clearly, it’s time for a reboot.

Fortunately, Robert Frost felt the same way in 1913, when he wrote the poem whose name I stole for this post. I present it here, with drawings, in case they might help you through the sun-starved months ahead.

Frost’s poem doesn’t supply Vitamin D, but then, that’s available over the counter. We can adjust your attitude from within, starting right here.

My November Guest

by Robert Frost

My sorrow, when she’s here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She’s glad the birds are gone away,
She’s glad her simple worsted grey
Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.

Only 35 days until Winter Solstice is past, and the sun shares milliseconds more light each morning.

Hang in there.

What’s the alternative?

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Road 2 Elsewhere by Peter Moore

Road 2 Elsewhere by Peter Moore

Road 2 Where, Exactly? Hope you’ll join me for this picnic.