Poems and Poetry

Mid-November | A Poem by Stan Morrison

The vines are so spent
nearly devoid of fruit,
a few bunches hang on
only to be plucked later,
late harvest is sweeter
more prized for enduring,
the skies grey chill
tule fog rushes in,
cold silence then storms
that promise new birth.



~ Looking for a place to publish your poetry? Visit Opportunity Publishing.