Ode to November
Skies of grey leak rain
onto grass that has gone brown.
All pigment chilled,
seeking warmth in the earth.
The wild fields stir
like a golden ocean,
As rusty waves bend
with wind, which is chill.
Icy fingers stroke my arms,
my back, my neck.
Shivers course beneath my
Sweater and my hair lies damp
And cold against my face.
There are trees farther back,
black monoliths,
Broken fingers
clawing the steely sky.
Their leaves have gone,
Fluttering away on icy wind
Or resting in the shade
of the sleeping wood.
My family�s still sleeping.
Who can tell where the sun is?
The rain quickens, chills,
The wind stirs and howls;
What a beautiful day.