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Who of us by late September long to be in bleak November?
A month that in this frigid clime is dark and dreary, out of rhyme.
Leaves all spent and soggy lie beneath a gray and grizzled sky.
The few that cling to sturdy oak are brown and brittle, lacking hope.
 
And everywhere there is the chill, a sign of winter’s coming will.
This message sent out sharp and clear of what will be in coming year.
I vow to God that I will find some beauty in this dreary time.
As I grow old I cannot waste this dismal month in cheerless haste.
 
So now I stand and look about and try to keep the bad thoughts out.
All grays and browns are what I see, fall’s splendor but a memory.
The smell of wood smoke in the air, faint and pleasant hanging there.
A chilly breeze that strokes my face, while holding me in fall’s embrace.
 
Grey squirrel scolds from limb on high, outlined against the leaden sky.
He flicks his tail and darts about, his way of keeping winter out.
A saucy speech prepared for all, while coping with late days of fall.
He’s gathering life, free time is rare . . no patience for my sad despair.
 
And as he disappears from view the feeders coax a bird or two.
Fluttering down they ply their trade of pecking seed, lest their lives fade.
They cheer me with their jaunty steps, these birds of winter, well adept,
At living life for this one day, not bothered that it’s bleak and grey.
 
I feel ashamed while standing there; my home is warm, my shelves not bare.
Thanksgiving soon to come again, when bread is shared with kith and kin.
And next comes Christmas . . loved by all; this season that will end the fall.
A time with all its joy and fun, that lifts the gloom from everyone.
 
So with these warming thoughts in mind, of soon to come, a festive time;
The joy in life that is December, creeps backward into bleak November.
I turn and end my thoughts of dread . . the cold, the snow that lie ahead,
Then picture what’s been given me, with eyes unblurred; I now can see. 



2016 © Diane L. Lefebvre
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