A Passing Moment in November.

The sound of distant traffic - muffled by houses.

Two people walking in the street - masked -

                                    distanced by silence.

A single wren chirping in a wet - bare tree.

I stand in the open doorway - barefoot - watching

                                        the world pass by.

This spring I let the weeds grow high in my

                                                front garden -

I let them grow for the arachnids - the bees - the

                                    occasional butterfly.

People passing to and fro thought I had got old

                                              and negligent -

They threw their rubbish over my garden wall.

The weeds shrink back to earth as winter nears.

My neighbours will soon think my garden tidy.

I stand in the doorway - wondering what to do next.

This cold November I am learning how to be lonely.

I retire to the kitchen to light a stick of incense.

The fragrant smoke reminds me of long lost friends.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

November 5th. 2020.

 Poem One in sequence.