Is there a promise of snow
when November holds
the heat of September,
when days like spring
make us think pumpkin spice
delights are anachronisms,
and sweet iced tea just seems
more fitting?
Maybe no promise,
but I can find a snowy glade,
ascend a white-topped mountain,
meander a frosty forest filled
with flocked Christmas pines —
if I just close my eyes and imagine.
—C.L. Fisher, November 2021
Unless otherwise indicated, all writings and images are the work of C.L. Fisher and may not be copied, used, or distributed without permission.
Poetic Meanderings 