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....
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