November is such a somber month,

A dreary passage from fall to winter,

No real weather to call its own, neither

A season beginning nor yet an ending

Between the falling of leaves and snow,

Nothing now but quiet in the pines.

But from across the yard my neighbor's

Brass wind chimes, two octaves of seven

Perfectly turned and tuned ringing notes,

Neither composed nor practiced, spilling

From her deck as though a choir loft,

And for one moment, barely beginning

and pausing, the opening falling chords

Of Pachebel's Canon in D Major.

And how can I not begin to believe again

That in this life, the pure chance of this

Morning, anything, anything is possible.