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by Brianna Burke


The snow falls, a quiet and peaceful storm

Coruscated flakes against the orange glow of the light-polluted night sky

The stacks of snow create a melody of crunches under boots, piles that are knee-high

That is November to me


The Aurora Borealis dance, the Arctic atmosphere its studio

I hold your hand beneath the symphony of purple and green

The distant traffic does not intervene

That is November to me 


Years pass, each month becoming more obscure and uncanny

With distance from a Northern home comes cacophony

Disorderly, out of key

It is no longer November to me

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