November

The wind snaps through the trees, Swift, chill, and hoar, Telling of the winter it sees, That comes to lair once more. Brown leaves stubbornly cling, To the blackened ends of stems, Rattling and rustling, do they sing, Of winter’s final omens. The geese fly south with a lonesome cry, Forming an arrow to warmer climes, Flying they stretch across the sky, To flee from difficult future times. The small ponds, chill they grow, Forming rimes of frost, Green things do they cease to know, As warmth is quickly lost. The earth becomes brown and torn, Matted with dying weeds, Once green fields are now forlorn, And the streams are filled with rattling reeds. The sky is filled with clouds so grey, Casting a perpetual gloom, The chill of winter is on its way, Weaving frosts as a loom.