Jane Hirschfield, in "November Angels," writes of
“the gold time’s going,
the pollen’s
traceless retreat”—
and all other November poems I find are glum and bleak.
But there is that last blaze of glory in the month; an
intensifying, paring down to the essentials—which are surely colors, warmth,
and light, hoarded and carefully set out where passersby can take upon
themselves what they’ll need to go on.
My November angels have these huge, glorious, richly colored
wings, proof against all the storms to come.
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