Arlene Corwin writes

November Autumn

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.