Sonnet for the Nones of November

Bare branches invent vaulted cathedrals —
structures to reflect cosmic unity.
Roses retain only thorns and bristles,
an outward show of spartan piety.
Yet all white pines retain still-green needles,
though oak leaves rot on a brown forest floor.
Catbird meows and mockingbird wheedles;
boletus moulders after shedding spore.
Gross matter loses form and changes shae,
like turning pages in Nature’s journal.
Doe bounds away, startled, timing each leap
to jump over bush. Swiftly, diurnal
light rises and falls, and glad the winter stars
sing the epic of twenty billion years.

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