by David Anthony

The seasons’ course seems strange to me,
more strange than I remember;
wild flowers bloom unseasonably:
primroses in November.

The young pretend to blame us all.
Well, youth’s a great dissembler:
May was forever, I recall,
and there was no November.

These days I’ll take what Nature sends
to hoard for dour December:
a glow of warmth as autumn ends;
primroses in November.

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