November Rain

by Linda Pastan

How separate we are

under our black umbrellas—dark

planets in our own small orbits,

hiding from this wet assault

of weather as if water

would violate the skin,

as if these raised silk canopies

could protect us

from whatever is coming next—

December with its white

enamel surfaces; the numbing

silences of winter.

From above we must look

like a family of bats—

ribbed wings spread

against the rain,

swooping towards any

makeshift shelter.


  1. Love Ms. Pastan. Thank you for sharing this.

  2. Note to self: A black umbrella can be romantic.


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