Sometimes these tiny things just write themselves.
Gray hills, gray sky, gray rainStippling the river.Gray gray gray again,Gray gray gray forever.
November feels this way:Drearily unshriven,Ten miles from Christmas Day,A hundred miles from heaven.
Too bad it's not quite cheery enough for a Christmas card.
I suppose I should quit trying not to rhyme, because even when I don't, finding a rhyme is generally what focuses and finishes the poem.
Many thanks to Diane at Random Noodling for hosting this week's Poetry Friday gathering. And I vow to do a better job of making the rounds to read and comment on everyone else's poems. Somehow the time always seems to slip away, especially once the kids get up, but I have appreciated the visits from other PF folks no end, and I don't mean not to reciprocate.