Poor Old November

November night is weighted; adumbral 

His early shadow that climbs the bare ridge

Hovers then covers earth’s wind-riddled lintel

Snuffing the silver that winds ‘neath the bridge

Somehow the shape of November night’s darkness

Keens the remembrance of what is no more

Even as I sense his brooding of moments

Nudging the hour to yesterday’s shore

Summer’s soft zephyr dons blue hat and mittens

Trading its laughter for roguish acclaim

Now he wanders lonely, like a lover smitten

With the enigma of yesterday’s fame

November night is a melancholy fellow

Tapping ice tear-drops on my window-pane

If he were May I would open my window

But poor old November must stay in the rain

© Janet Martin

Poor old November, I thought as we raced inside, shivering and slamming doors quickly lest he somehow get in. Even the shades are drawn...