Death of November

Like a child too long at the fair November is tired and needs to slumber Like an aging woman past her prime November is grey and sad with black cloaked skeletons of trees who once wore summer's splendor Like a homeless urchin November has no home, no purpose and wears tattered clothes of a lost Autumn Like the spent tears of a widow for a husband who did not come back from a long ago war November's battle is over, its weapons thrown down, its armies defeated Like the last dying wish on a soldier's lips it pulls at the skirts of an oncoming December, and begs to be laid in its final rest in the graveyard of a dying year....