When the leaves leave the tree stripped of its lay
When the heart feels some part slipping away
When the earth bears the dearth of summer spent
When the husk drifts after its gift is rent
It’s November
When the gale starts to wail a dirge-like tune
When the day starts to fade soon after noon
When the spire dims its fire, kissed by Jack Frost
When the hearth brims with the warmth Sun has lost
It’s November
When the world-view is pearled, swirled, twirled then
stilled
When the air starts to wear warnings, bone-chilled
When happiness is our ‘yes’ flannel-clad
When a nook with a book makes us fully glad
It’s November
When the teapot is hot more than it’s cold
When flower-hours are pictures we hold
When nature’s stature is solemn and stark
When gold hues diffuse and autumn is dark
It’s November
When clocks turn back and pack a twilight punch
When matted embers surrender their crunch
When the first snowman can make old kids grin
(When we forget what yet waits to begin)
It’s November
When apples dapple cuisine, plain and posh
When dinner-winners use pumpkin and squash
When hugs are mugs filled with something that steams
When want relinquishes wishes for dreams
It’s November
When weather tethers us together again
When home clucks and tucks like a mother hen
When gratitude wraps its brood in a prayer
When the wood-pile smiles from here to there
It’s November
When the bard lets down her guard to a roar
When poetry is a sea with no shore
When she will shirk her work for one more dance
When thought is caught between rule and romance
It’s November
When bluejays boss, cross or happy, who knows
When we are wowed by cloud and contrail shows
When trust must suffer wind's blustering fits
When we scan plans that demand boots and mitts
(and snow-tires, home-fires, washer-fluid, shovels, de-icer salt, popcorn, parkas, umbrellas)
It's November
© Janet Martin
