November draws in the dawn in its hushed way,
A flush that settles softly through the day.
The simmering light grows colder as it sways,
And frost creeps quietly through the forest glades.
The breeze carves winding paths across the sky,
It calls a farewell echo, drifting by.
A worn fence trembles in the biting freeze,
As brittle leaves cling weakly to the trees.
The smoke from chimneys coils in lazy rings,
A comfort built from small familiar things.
The fields lie waiting, tucked beneath the hills,
The world grew patient, breathless, rushed, and still.
The lantern glow of windows gleams like gold,
A warmth deep and dark and obliviously cold,
The rain taps lines on the sodden ground,
A steady pulse, a soft, persistent sound.
Space gathers close to keep the light,
As dusk folds early into a heavy night.
Yet still November holds a gentle grace,
A quiet kindness in its weathered face.
It turns the year toward memory and rest,
A softer rhythm beating in its chest.
And in its calm, a word is here
The end of something shapes, what will appear.
