Our Poets November Poem - NOVEMBER'S BREATH


                                                         NOVEMBER'S BREATH

                                                 A chill wind sweeps the hillside,
                                                Before it fly the leaves--
                                                Small rains caress the meadows,
                                                To drip from roofs and eaves.

                                                The year is sweetly dying--
                                                Yet memories remain,
                                                Of golden days, of shipmates,
                                                Not rinsed out by the rain.

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