There’s ‘Early Autumn’, ‘Autumn In New York’, ‘Autumn Leaves’
And, I believe a thousand more.
But no one’s touched upon November, or
November born, ‘thirty four.
It’s never been my paragon;
My ideal month:
Lighting fires, staying in;
Layered clothing, naked trees,
No more oranges and gold,
With fog and cold (and growing old)
Boots and socks up to the knees
And darkness coming early.
Surely, much to eulogize,
And I apologise
For grumbling or, for ‘kvetching’, as they say in much of USA.
Thanksgiving Day, autumn’s harvest, for example:
Nature’s ample giving out.
Perhaps I should be shouting
Words of gratitude
For autumn’s plenitude.
Okay, fall November, I was born
When nature’s cornucopia is rich.
I shall no longer bitch about it
But heap praise upon this month eleven
For the heaven-sent largesse it means.