November New Moon Sonnet
Hail, bright crescent, as pond crusts with first frost,
and black walnuts vanish to squirrel dens.
Eggs are forgotten by quieting hens —
anything not kept warm is surely lost,
or so say brown stems of goldenrod’s ghost.
Fat fills brown fur and softens chipmunk chins:
gluttony is not one of Nature’s sins.
Survival depends on who has the most
to husband, against light and warmth’s return.
Gale wind besieges branches too brittle
and tatters every leaf from red to brown.
Finches still forage — yet fewer each morn
set out from ivy bowers to battle;
paper wasp nest shatters as it comes down.