I have spent two days sorting my late husband’s poems. I have a notebook full, but when I go to the computer list to find them, it’s not always easy. The one below, a description of November was easy. “Delaware Drive” was not so easy. It’s address in WordPerfect: maplesentries. While frustrating, I still find satisfaction is printing and cataloging his hundreds of thoughtful verse.

ELEVENTH MONTH AFTERNOON

The shadows crawl quickly across
the lawn, up the tree, over the
house eating the sunshine
in preparation for the cold
darkness, a wasted effort
to prolong warmth.

The sun rushes to escape the chilled
leafless specter of branches
shivering in the November
full moon, trying to
avoid being caught
without sweater and scarf.

Even the chimney reaches higher to
catch the last fling of orange
light, hoping to stall the
loss of heated cheer,
wishing to have company in
the mourning song for
seasons past.

And I see times now past that
are replayed in wispy glimpses
of shared laughter and
worried lateness for steamed
kitchens; and children’s
schemes of imagined greatness, fading.

And I feel deep in sealed spaces
the loneliness of no answers, no invitations,
ignored greetings, changed plans, as
imaged good times are shared
by the good actors saying
the best words.

Yet here is fondness for the memories
sparked by four PM sun shadows,
an awareness of friends who care,
family that loves,
dreams ever fresh, and
hands still reaching,
one full, one empty.

Richard E. Lake
12 November 1981