November Woods


A forest path;

the sun in the trees,

the leaves in the breeze,

strollin’ along,

whistlin’ a song.


With the weather cold

your breath turns to steam,

there’s ice in the stream,

the leaves whirl around

with a whispery sound.


The woods are a misty brown and gray,

it’s getting colder along the way,

silence grows as the forest waits for the snow.


The path winds down

through a thicket of firs,

we’re covered in burrs,

the pines are still green,

the first we have seen.


We stop at last

at the cliff on the hill,

the forest is still,

and spread out below

are the places we know.

Now the snow begins and the woods grow colder,

we must turn back ere the evening’s older,

the darkness grows, but the light remains in the snow.


We wander on, and the clifftop is still,

and so is the hill….

Todd Klein, early 1970s

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